


I'm Not Stupid, You Know

by WDHawthorne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WDHawthorne/pseuds/WDHawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's "death", John is grief-stricken and guilt-ridden.  But has he learned anything during his time with Sherlock?  Will he be able to see beyond his heartbreak and make any sense of what happened?  My own take on what happens after The Reichenbach Fall, since I like to give John credit for not being an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six weeks, two days, seven hours and thirty-some odd minutes

**Author's Note:**

> After writing fanfic in other fandoms for many years for zine format, this is my first foray into A03 and Sherlock fandom. I'm a little intimidated by the excellent quality of the fic in this fandom, but I guess I've got to take the plunge at some point! Hope the Luddite in me doesn't mess this up!

_John:   See, I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?_

_Sherlock:  I’ll leave you to your own deductions._

_John:  I’m not stupid you know._

_\--A Scandal in Belgravia_

John sat in the outer office, anxious and uncomfortable in the new dark suit he’d bought for Sherlock’s funeral, waiting for Mycroft.  He glanced about the room at the rich mahogany woodwork and dark red walls, absently wondering if it was designed with royalty in mind or merely for intimidation. He sat stiffly on the edge of the overlarge, overstuffed armchair that Mycroft’s assistant Anthea (or whatever her real name was) had indicated when she’d finally taken a glance up from texting on her Blackberry.  For a couple of practical reasons, he didn’t want to risk making himself more comfortable by sitting back further in the chair; one being that he wasn’t sure, if he settled all the way back on the huge seat cushion, as to whether his feet would actually still be able to touch the floor.  The other reason was that he felt as if he might jump out of his skin once Mycroft actually appeared, and wouldn’t that be accomplished in a more dignified manner if he perched on the edge rather than lounging back with his feet suspended in mid-air?

 

He thought to take a long, slow breath to try to quiet his jitters, but worried that if he took yet another deep breath, he just might hyperventilate, so he focused on the patterns in the dark, ornate carpet under his feet and just tried to breathe evenly, while absently flexing the fingers in his left hand.

 

This was not going to be easy.  This was harder, more personal, than returning from Afghanistan.  His therapist had suggested, strongly, that if he could say the things that were in his heart, the things that kept him up at night between his bouts with night terrors, then he might be able to regain some control of his life.  (This _lonely_ life, for what it was worth.)  John desperately needed to find some way to move on, to find a path to a life without Sherlock. 

 

_“…There’s stuff that you wanted to say, but didn’t say it.  Say it now…”_

 

He couldn’t tell Ella, not in session.  Couldn’t say the words aloud, not to her.  It hurt far too much to even think about saying them.  The guilt strangled him.  But over the course of the last six weeks since Sherlock’s… _fall_ …, in each weekly and then semi-weekly session, she kept coming back to that.  As if forming these feelings into thoughts, thoughts into words, and saying them in his own voice would be a cure as simple as popping a couple of paracetamol and taking a nap.

 

He couldn’t tell her. Maybe it was because he felt that if he hadn’t told _Sherlock_ , it was a pointless exercise.  Telling _her_ wasn’t going to fix anything, wasn’t going to ease his pain or guilt, wasn’t going to make 221B less lonely, and wasn’t going to bring Sherlock back.  Even so, he was somewhat reluctant to disregard her advice as complete bollocks; her previous advice to begin a blog hadn’t been a bad idea in retrospect.  Ella was, after all, an intelligent, competent therapist who was well-respected in her field. 

 

Once, _after,_ he’d tried to tell Sherlock what was in his heart.  Two weeks after the funeral, shortly before he’d returned to the flat, he’d dragged poor old Mrs. Hudson with him when he visited Sherlock’s grave, because he didn’t think he would be able to go alone without breaking down and embarrassing himself.  He stood there in front of the black marble headstone, on soil that had not yet settled or sprouted grass, and he did manage to put to words at least some of the thoughts on his mind.  But when it came time to wrench those deeper feelings from his heart —feelings of guilt and so much more—and put them on his lips, he couldn’t finish.  Instead, he childishly begged for Sherlock to _not be dead_ before he finally reigned himself in, and reminded himself that Sherlock wasn’t really in the cold, black marble headstone, or in the lifeless body encased six feet below.  And even if John believed in a God or an afterlife where Sherlock could hear him, there was nothing to be done for it.  So he’d sniffed and stilled his trembling lip, dried his tears, and commanded himself to soldier up.  He lifted his chin, then he turned with military precision and marched away to rejoin Mrs. Hudson.  He tried to make himself believe that this was how he would move on now, and live a life without Sherlock, without his adventures, his annoyances, and without his brilliance. 

 

It didn’t quite work that way.  Moving on wasn’t as simple as just making up your mind to do so and striding away from the past.

 

Recently, however, the thought occurred to John that although Sherlock could never again hear his voice, maybe John should speak to someone still here amongst the living, someone who would actually listen objectively, and wouldn’t simply mutter placating phrases and tell John just what he wanted to hear.  He needed someone to say “Yes, no wonder you feel guilty, you should be.  Things could have ended so differently if you’d only said these things.”  He needed someone to blame him the same way he blamed himself. 

 

That left Mrs. Hudson out.  And Mike Stamford.  For about four seconds he’d thought about talking to Greg Lestrade, whom he’d still not completely forgiven, who should be feeling almost as guilty as John, before he discounted his objectivity also.  Last week he had made a half-hearted attempt to contact Molly, but she’d left both his texts and his one voice message unanswered.  Clearly she must hate him for what had happened to Sherlock, recalling Molly’s ill-disguised crush on John’s mad, extraordinary friend.  Their paths hadn’t crossed ever since Sherlock’s fall.  It would have been good to have her cry and scream at him, pound his chest with her fists, and call him every horrible name possible.  She would have understood how righteous his guilt was.

 

As much as John detested the idea, Mycroft, and his distant, calculating, and absolute _un_ sentimentality would have to hear the words that John needed to confess.  He didn’t know that this would work; in fact, he quite suspected it wouldn’t.  Sharing his guilt with Mycroft wasn’t going to proffer up any kind of magic trick that would enable John to go back to feeling normal again.  John also sort of doubted he’d have the bollocks to even go through with this.  But on the slim chance that it just might help him move forward, John decided that he had to try, that his life as it was now was just too unbearable.  _Crushingly_ unbearable.  Therefore, John sat, perched on the edge of this enormous chair, feeling as brittle and pale as chalk, and wondering if he’d be able to soldier up and say his piece when the time came.

 

Realistically, John knew that he would never be able to just blurt out what he wanted to say, so he had carefully planned to start with some practical matters first.  At least that would give him some reasonable grounds for requesting this meeting, in case he lost his courage along the way and couldn’t address his real purpose in the end.  Mycroft was the last person in the world that John wanted to think him foolish.  (The last person _left_ in the world).

 

Without any clue from a buzzer or ringing telephone, Anthea suddenly cocked her head toward the door to Mycroft’s office and said “He can see you now.” 

 

John took a breath and blew it out, steeling himself as he stood, his left hand twitching nervously.

 

“Right.  Yes.  Good.  Thank you.”

 

***

 

Mycroft’s office, with its butter-colored walls, simple furnishings and muted lights would have been slightly less intimidating than the outer office if Mycroft himself weren’t standing in it.  Taller and broader than Sherlock, John always had the distinct impression that Mycroft was literally looking down his nose at him. 

 

“Ah!  Doctor Watson.  How good to see you,” Mycroft crooned, his voice silk, but devoid of any actual warmth.  Setting his mobile in the middle of his desk blotter, between a multi-button landline on one side and an ominous red telephone on the other, he gestured for John to sit in the chair before the desk. 

 

John sat, only belatedly remembering from a previous visit how little this spindly chair was compared to those in the outer office—stiff and small, with no chance of John’s feet not reaching all the way to the ground in this one.  John momentarily wondered if he should have requested to meet at the Diogenes Club, but then he rather preferred the relative privacy of Mycroft’s own office. 

 

Mycroft casually propped a hip on the front of his desk and gazed down at John, a plastic smile on his face that betrayed nothing.  The dynamics of the low chair and Mycroft’s height were obviously intended to intimidate his visitors.

 

It was working.

 

“Tell me, Doctor, how are you getting on?  Is there something I can do for you?”

 

John shifted in his chair, rubbed his palms on the knees of his trousers.  “Well,” he started, but his voice broke like a pre-pubescent boy’s and the single syllable ended in a squeak, so he stopped, cleared his throat, and lifted his chin before continuing.

 

“Well, I—,” he cleared his throat again, shifted again.  He pressed his lips together, blew out a breath, and continued.  “I wanted to-to talk to you about something.”

 

Mycroft nodded.  “I assume about Sherlock?” he asked, and his voice was lower, softer now.  John supposed this was a gentle tone coming from Mycroft, but it just wasn’t working for him.

 

“Yes.  Right.  Well, actually…,” John scratched his eyebrow and then picked at a non-existent piece of lint on his trousers. 

 

“It’s all right, Doctor.  Please go on.”

 

“Well, I – I guess I haven’t been very on the ball these last weeks,” John started.  He knew exactly how long he’d not been on the ball.  _Six weeks.  Six weeks, two days, seven hours and …_ he glanced at his watch… _thirty-some odd minutes._

 

“That’s understandable, Doctor.  You’ve been through quite a trauma.”

 

He wished Mycroft would stop pretending to be polite and just let him speak.

 

“Yes.  Well, I – I realized the other day that I’d missed a couple of rent payments, but when I spoke to Mrs. Hudson, she said—”

 

Mycroft folded his hands together in front of him, a prim smile pasted on his face.  “Say no more, Doctor.  I was only too happy to help out.”

 

John looked down at his hands and made a conscious effort to stop rubbing his knees.  “I’ll pay you back.”

 

With a long suffering sigh, Mycroft crossed his legs at the ankles.  “No, really, there is no need for repayment, Doctor.  I did it for Sherlock.  You were his friend, and he would not have wanted you thrown out into the streets because of his own poor decisions.”

 

 _Poor decisions!?_ John wanted to shout in frustration at the idiocy of the word choice.  How many euphemisms for suicide had he heard in the last six weeks?  _Six weeks, two days, seven hours and thirty-some odd minutes._

 

“In fact, Doctor, I fully intend to keep up Sherlock’s half of the rent so that you can remain living at the Baker Street flat as long as you would so desire.”

 

“I can’t let—I can’t accept—,” John started, jutting his chin up, trying to maintain some semblance of pride.  Mycroft’s charity was making him feel even less of a man, even smaller, than when he walked in.

 

“Yes, you can.  And you will.”  As if realizing how much of an order that sounded like, Mycroft softened and gave him another one of his butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth smiles.  “Don’t think of it as a gift.  Think of it as something I’d like to do for my brother.”

 

 _He must be feeling something too,_ John thought _._ Sherlock was his little brother, and was dead now in no small part to Mycroft’s own actions.  John had seen the wrecked expression on Mycroft’s face at the funeral. _Yes.  Mycroft understands guilt._

 

John scratched his forehead.  “Okay.  Well.  Right.  I guess- I guess I’ll just say ‘thank you’.”

 

“No thanks are necessary.  And we don’t have to speak of this again, Doctor.”

 

John nodded, hesitated, and then pressed on.

 

“I – uh.  I also wanted to talk to you about—,” John’s throat suddenly threatened to close up.  It was just so _hard_ to talk about anything involving Sherlock.  He gave a light cough into his hand and tried to continue, but just at that moment Mycroft’s mobile chimed.  Mycroft glanced at a text and then slipped it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket.  When he returned his attention to John, he had one raised eyebrow that looked slightly perturbed.

 

“I also wanted to ask you about Sherlock’s things,” John continued.  “Mrs. Hudson boxed up some of his science equipment, but other than that, I haven’t touched any of his things yet.  Well, except for some of his more, um, perishable experiments.  I wondered if you wanted me to box up the rest of his things for you, or-,” he couldn’t finish, because the thought of the flat empty of all things Sherlock was intolerable.  “-Or maybe you would like some of his things as, you know, mementos of him.  His violin, or—,”

 

Mycroft raised a palm to cut him off.  “No doctor.  Considering the antagonistic nature of my relationship with my little brother, keeping any memento of him would seem rather hypocritical, don’t you think?  Or at the very least, maudlin.  No, I think I’ll leave the disposal of Sherlock’s possessions up to you.  Please feel free to keep or dispose of his things as you see fit.”

 

John frowned.  _As I see fit?  He wouldn’t care if I put all Sherlock’s worldly possessions in boxes and tossed them in Mrs. Hudson’s bins?_   John rolled his shoulder, fighting anger, and looked up at Mycroft, trying to discern if there was any regret, any actual emotion behind those eyes, but the mask was impenetrable.  “Let me know if you change your mind.  It will be a very long time before I will be able to make any decisions about Sherlock’s things.”

 

 _If ever._   He couldn’t bear to think about the flat without the violin propped near the window, or the skull on the mantel, or Sherlock’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe.  John couldn’t even bring himself to clean Sherlock’s toothpaste speckles from the bathroom mirror.  And Mrs. Hudson had smiled sympathetically and kissed his cheek when he sternly forbade her from polishing out a perfect print of Sherlock’s bare right foot from the middle of the coffee table by the sofa.  No.  He was going to keep what little he had left of Sherlock with him for a while.

 

After checking another text, Mycroft gave a nod to him, uncrossed his legs and straightened up to stand before him.  It seemed like one of those signals that people make when they want to wrap things up and get you to leave.  In confirmation of John’s thoughts, Mycroft asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor?”

 

This was it.  This was his chance.  This was his chance to say the things that didn’t get said…

 

“Yes.  Well.  There is some- something else I wanted—I needed to say,” John hated the choked sound his voice was already taking on.  He cleared his throat and tried to steel himself to the task. 

 

For once Mycroft didn’t prompt him.  Maybe he too heard the catch in his voice and didn’t know what to do with it.  Because this— _this_ was going to get emotional, and somehow John was going to have to get through it.  He owed this to himself, to Sherlock, and even to Mycroft.

 

John had worn his suit not in deference to Mycroft’s formal tastes, but as an indicator of how very serious John felt about his task.  However, now the bloody suit seemed to strangle him.  He lifted his chin and stuck a finger in his collar, trying to loosen it up enough to speak around the constriction in his throat.  “Now.  Don’t be mistaken.  I still… I still _hate_ you for the part you played in Sherlock’s—in his _fall_ …” 

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but merely nodded.   “Understood.”

 

“But even so…I wanted to—I mean I need to—to apologize to you.”

 

“Apologize?  Doctor, I assure you that there is nothing _you_ need to apologize for!”

 

“Y-yes.  Well.  There is.”  _God,_ he hated the strangled notes creeping into his voice, hated his nervous stuttering. 

 

“What could you _possibly_ have to apologize for, Doctor?”

 

John opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.  He swallowed, cleared his throat, and forced his voice out, trying to ignore the thickness in his throat.  “I was _there._ ”

 

Mercifully, Mycroft didn’t need any explanation of when or where _there_ was.  St. Bart’s.  Four stories down and across the street.  He propped a hip against his desk again and gave John his full attention.

 

“I was _there_ ,” John repeated, feeling a tremor start in his chin.  He pushed on, trying to ignore it the best he could.  “He _cried_ , Mycroft.  I heard him _crying_ , I heard the tears in his voice.  He asked me to stay in the street, fix my eyes on him.  He asked me if I could do that for him.”  John couldn’t see Mycroft anymore.  Everything was starting to blur, and he was afraid to blink lest the gathering tears fall.

 

“He was _crying_ , and I-I should have told him I’d—I’d do _anything_ for him,” John was horrified at the girlish pitch edging into his voice, but wouldn’t stop, not when he had gotten this far.  “I should have told him that—that I _loved_ him.” 

 

He forced the last words out, barely audible, as if they were the last bit of air left in his lungs, and it all would have been okay if he hadn’t had to breathe back in afterward.  However, the air sucking back into his lungs betrayed him and became a sob, and John felt the tears fall.  He jumped up out of the chair and turned his back to Mycroft, pinching his eyes closed with his thumb and forefinger, mortified, heart-broken all over again, reliving those last moments— _Good-bye, John—_ the vision of Sherlock flailing through the air, the panic and pounding rush of blood in his own ears, the blood-soaked curls, the lifeless eyes...

 

 _How was this supposed to help?_   Surely breaking down in front of Mycroft wasn’t going to help him sleep at night.  Still, John couldn’t ignore a small feeling of relief when the words did finally tumble out.  The cross of guilt he’d been lugging seemed just a bit lighter perhaps.  At least Mycroft would know now how much John regretted his failures that day, and could commiserate in their combined guilt. 

 

Mycroft’s mobile chimed again, but he ignored it.  Instead he stepped close behind John and John saw his hand enter his field of vision, offering him a silk handkerchief.  John waved it away and fumbled in his pocket for his own, scrubbing it roughly across his face.  He cleared his throat and raised his chin to continue, desperately trying for some of the self-control he’d learned in the military. 

 

“I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it.  Everybody, _everybody_ , knew, _you_ knew, long ago.  I should have told him.  I should have made sure he knew.  But then he threw his mobile away and it was too late.”  He scrubbed more traitorous tears away furiously, and scrunched the damp, white cotton fabric in his palm as he fisted his hands at his side.  “But I should have yelled it, _screamed_ it up from the street.”

 

“Doctor,” Mycroft started quietly, then amended, “John.  Stop.  Don’t do this to yourself.  Yes, you might have said that.  And maybe it would have made you feel better now.  But it would not have made any difference.  It would not have stopped Sherlock.”

 

John gave a wet sniff and wiped his nose, minimally composing himself before turning back to face Mycroft.  “How could you _possibly_ know that with any certainty?  What if—what if I had told him, what if that would have—”

 

“John.  There’s no ‘what if’.”  Mycroft spoke softly, as kindly as John had ever heard him speak.  “Look.  I know that you are quite aware of Sherlock’s gifts of observation and deduction.”

 

John just nodded in response as he dabbed again at his eyes.

 

“So if you think about this logically, don’t you think that Sherlock would have long ago deduced your feelings for him?  You didn’t _need_ to say it, John.  Even if you didn’t quite realize it for yourself yet, Sherlock would have already known.”

 

John’s hands again curled into tight fists as he thought about this.  “But if he knew—,”

 

“Yes, John,” Mycroft said softly.  “He would have known, but he still did it.  Your feelings didn’t matter because Sherlock was incapable of empathy, incapable of understanding love.  You were his friend because you were convenient.  You fed his ego.  You know how headstrong and self-centered he was.  Declaring your feelings wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ have influenced his final decision.  Nothing that happened is even remotely your fault, and no one blames you for anything.  And I hope you won’t blame yourself, either.”

 

“But it was my job to protect him,” John argued.  “I told him, not half an hour before he-before he-…I told him ‘Friends protect people.’  But I didn’t, did I?  I was too stupid to see through his trick until it was too late.  You asked me, the first time we met, to report back to you on him, because you worried about him.  Christmas night—you told me to stay with him.  Even the last time we met, you asked me to look out for him.  And look what a piss-poor job of it I did!"  John sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted.  "I should have taken better care of him…”

  
Mycroft’s mobile chimed again.  He lifted it from his pocket, glanced at it, made a slight eye-roll and grimace, not dissimilar to an expression John had seen him give Sherlock in the past, and re-pocketed it.

 

“My apologies, Doctor, for these petty interruptions.”

 

John shrugged, still lost in his own thoughts.  “How can you _not_ blame me?” he asked quietly.

 

Mycroft was silent a moment and then answered.  “I don’t blame you because I know my brother, John.  I know the way he was.  He always did exactly what he wanted.  There was nothing you could have done.  And please, don’t feel guilty about anything that happened.  As loathe as I am to recall the matter, I am more to blame than anyone.  I simply cannot blame you for Sherlock’s actions.  Not anymore than I can blame you for Sherlock showing up at BuckinghamPalace in nothing but a bed sheet.”

 

John couldn’t help but give a grateful grunt at Mycroft’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a reference to the humorous memory, even though it brought back a new flood of grief, leaving his belly cramping and his left hand trembling.  _I will never laugh like that again._

 

Mycroft’s mobile was chiming yet again, several times in quick succession, and he only marginally glanced at the texts, a slight pursing of his lips the only hint of his annoyance.

 

“I’m sorry.  Something has come up that I need to go attend to, Doctor.  Please, take a few moments to gather yourself, and then Anthea will see you out when you’re ready.  And if there’s anything more I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call on me again.”

 

John nodded and cleared his throat, unable to meet Mycroft’s gaze.   “Thank you.”

 

“And John,” Mycroft added just before he exited the office.  “I realize that your therapist must have sent you on this mission as some sort of silly emotional catharsis.  But really, Doctor.  I thought I told you to fire her.”

 

****

 

John went home that night and thought a great deal about his own guilt feelings and what Mycroft had said.  Mycroft was determined that John bore no fault in this, but was that even reasonable?  How could Mycroft, the Ice Man, really understand any of this?  From John’s experience, Mycroft didn’t understand love or empathy any more than he claimed Sherlock did.  So how would Mycroft really know if John might have stopped Sherlock with an assurance of love?

 

Despite Mycroft’s firm reassurances, John still felt excruciating guilt over never having told Sherlock he was loved.  He wondered if anyone in Sherlock’s life had ever told him anything like that; and whether if someone had, if Sherlock would have been different, or if any of this might have gone differently.  But in the end, he could see no real answer.  Whether Mycroft was right, and it wouldn’t have made any difference, or whether it would have been enough to make Sherlock back down, it was pointless now.  It wouldn’t bring Sherlock back to him.

 

But somehow, even though the guilt still made him sad, John was able to sleep that night.  He felt like he could think more clearly now that he’d confessed.  Perhaps his therapist had been right all along.

 

As it turned out, he was able to sleep for several nights in a row. 

 

The respite ended one night less than a week later when his night terrors returned, and a chilled, sweating John stumbled down the stairs in his dressing gown to the kitchen, thinking tea and something light to eat might help calm him.  He put on the kettle and picked up an apple out of a bowl on the table. 

 

 _An apple a day keeps the doctor away_ , he thought to himself, musing about how that could possibly work when he himself was actually a doctor to begin with.  He took a bite and chewed slowly, thinking about his nightmare, discouraged that it had returned.  Apparently articulating his feelings of guilt had helped somewhat, but it wasn’t enough to cure him altogether from the horrible recurring dream. 

 

John replayed it in his head.  There was just something about it that bothered him, tickled at the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite define.  The dream was always the same, it always started at the same point—when Sherlock started to cry.  He hadn’t been close enough to see the tears, but the memory of the tremor and wet thickness of Sherlock’s voice still cut him to the quick even now.  John had never seen Sherlock genuinely cry before. Sherlock’s tears were so atypical that there were some nights when the memory of the tears eclipsed the nightmare of seeing him dead on the ground.  John couldn’t help but feel the devastation behind them.  How sad and frightened he must have been to be driven to do what he’d done.  

 

The water heated, and John poured himself a cup of tea and meandered to the sitting room with his apple, settling on the sofa.  He blew across the top of the hot drink before sipping, and then leaned forward to gently blow a fine layer of dust from the surface in the middle of the coffee table.  It was still there, the faint image of Sherlock’s foot, huge compared to John’s own, long and narrow, with a high arch and long, almost delicate toes.  He didn’t remember exactly how this particular print came to be, but he could effortlessly picture the way Sherlock would stomp on top of furniture instead of going around it; how he rarely sat in his armchair in the way a chair was meant to be used.  It was comforting, picturing Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, stomping barefoot over the coffee table in a fit of boredom, or on his way to appropriate John’s laptop from the desk.  The print had faded some.  John could no longer see the intricate whorls of skin texture on the heel or toes.  But enough of it was still there, the faint remaining skin oils creating a cherished relic of Sherlock’s once dominant presence.

 

John sat back and went back to his contemplation of this dream.  He would never forget a single word of their last dialog, would never forget how frightened he’d felt when he’d heard Sherlock’s tears. 

 

_I’m a fake…The newspapers were right all along.  I want you to tell Lestrade.  I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson.  And Molly.  In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you…that I created Moriarty for my own purposes…_

 

_…It’s a trick.  It’s just a magic trick…_

 

He remembered his own confusion and horror as he heard those words the first time.  Why would Sherlock say such a thing?  None of it was a trick and he couldn’t expect John to ever believe it was.  ( _I know you’re for real.)_

 

_No, stay exactly where you are.  Don’t move…Keep your eyes fixed on me.  Please.  Can you do this for me?_

John couldn’t quite understand why Sherlock needed him to watch from that particular spot, but he’d been quite adamant about where he’d wanted John to stand.  He'd said _please_.  Was he afraid that John would try to run underneath and try to catch him, stop his fall?  But John never had the chance to question it, because then…

 

_Good-bye, John._

 

And then John would wake up in heart-stopping terror every time Sherlock jumped.

 

John wondered if there was something his mind was trying to tell him by repeating this dream, even after all these weeks.  Was there more to it than just his guilt?  Why was it always Sherlock’s tears that seemed to obsess John?  He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something.  Was there something that he’d forgotten?  Was there something that he was supposed to infer from the steady repetition of their final conversation? 

 

Had Sherlock been trying to tell him something?

 

_I had wanted to tell him I loved him.  Was this like that?  Had Sherlock wanted to tell me that he loved me? Is that what I’m missing?_

 

John thought about that a long time, but, Mycroft be damned, John knew the truth of that also.  Sherlock would have deduced John’s feelings, it was true; but likewise, John realized that he already knew that Sherlock had loved him, too.  Perhaps not in any conventional way, but in whatever way Sherlock could, John knew in his heart that Sherlock had loved him.  This was not a big revelation.  Maybe it had been unsaid between them, not acknowledged in any way, but they both had known.

 

So what was it about this dream then, this sequence of dialog, which made John itch with a feeling that he was supposed to be solving a mystery?  Was it just the trauma of seeing Sherlock jump, or was there more that he was supposed to understand from this nightmare?  If he figured out what he’d forgotten, or what he’d missed, would the nightmares finally ease?

 

He looked at the rounded white crater in his apple where his teeth had taken out the chunk of fruit and felt a twinge of something, a fragment of memory, nagging in the back of his mind. 

 

He started to take another bite, but stopped and pulled the apple away to look at it again.  The first round mark was an “O”, the second was more of just a half-circle, where John’s upper teeth had broken the skin first.  John turned the apple around.  It looked a bit like a letter “U”?

 

_I._ _O. U._

 

The apple, Moriarty’s apple, the one that was left on the coffee table the day Moriarty was acquitted. 

 

 _And where was Moriarty now?_   He’d disappeared the same day, along with his alter ego Rich Brook…

 

Suddenly, John began to run a mental tally of all the things that had occurred that didn’t seem quite…right:

 

_Sherlock’s tears…_

_A magic trick… Tell Lestrade…Mrs. Hudson…Molly…_

_Stay exactly where you are…Keep you eyes fixed on me…_

 

This _meant_ something.  John could feel it in his subconscious, tearing and clawing at his mind, trying to get out. 

 

 _Sherlock...  Sherlock’s tears…_ Sherlock, who had only shed fake tears before this. 

 

_Fake tears…?_

 

This…this _meant_ something.

 

_See.  Observe.  Deduce._

 

John rarely slept for a long time after this.  He was too busy.

 

***


	2. Six Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, and Forty-Some Odd Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after Sherlock's fall, John meets with Mycroft again and presents his theory, wanting to finally have an answer to what happened, knowing his heart will break all over again if he's wrong.

John glanced at his watch, his mind still absently ticking the minutes and hours since… _the fall_.  Would it all change today?  He expected that within the hour, one way or the other, he would know.  An end to this—it was all he dared to hope for.  To _know_.  To allow himself to grieve and then somehow move on, or…or…  Well, that was too much to think about, too dangerous to hope for, even though that tiny flicker of hope had been the little candle lighting the darkness in his heart for the last several months. 

He didn’t sit in the huge armchair in Mycroft’s outer office today.  He stayed standing, chin up, soldier straight, as he waited, and ignored Anthea’s endless texting.  His knees felt a little wobbly, and his stomach was wound into sour knots, but he couldn’t sit.  It was over four months since last he had met with Mycroft; four months of thinking, researching, investigating…observing and deducing…  and now it all came down to what Mycroft would say today.  One way or the other, Mycroft had the answer, and John was not going to leave here, no matter what, until Mycroft told him the truth.

The researching and investigating hadn’t been as easy as clearing Sherlock’s reputation.  Moriarty’s smear campaign had unraveled in short order as soon as the young kidnapped boy had awakened in hospital and finally, unsurprisingly, confirmed it was a man in a mask and wig who had taken him and his sister, and not Sherlock.  (How proud Sherlock would have been of this little lad; a trail of linseed oil and keen observation while under such great stress.)  After that, there had been a parade of Moriarty exposés in the various gossip rags, statements from some of Sherlock’s happy customers who knew better, and testaments from some of Moriarty’s clientele who hadn’t fared so well and now hoped to reduce their prison sentences by telling the truth.  Then there’d been the question of why Moriarty/Rich Brook had disappeared if he was truly merely the hired actor he had claimed.  Within weeks of his death, it was concluded in the press that Sherlock had been an innocent hounded into suicide by the machinations of the consulting criminal.  And Kitty Riley was dismissed from her job, which was the only silver lining John had been able to glean.

For John’s work, attempting to find real answers to Sherlock’s incomprehensible death, he had assumed and functioned as if his every move, every Google search, and every personal contact he made was being watched, if not by Mycroft’s network, then by Moriarty’s; or in all likelihood, both.  With that in mind, John had made only the barest minimum of contacts necessary.  Mike Stamford left a door open here and there for him at Bart’s, and scanned some files to a USB drive for him—information passed unobtrusively during lunches on a public park bench.  Lestrade did the same, once he and John had forgiven each other, passing files or a memory stick on the sly.  (John had forgiven Lestrade over a confrontational ale one night, when Lestrade had defended his arrest of Sherlock with an anguished _I have family to support, John.  I couldn’t lose my job by disobeying an order!  I thought he’d just sit in a cell overnight until it all got sorted!_ And then, after Lestrade had followed that with _If you two hadn’t pulled that escape stunt, which practically screamed ‘guilty as charged’, maybe he would have been in that cell in the morning instead of in the morgue!_ , which had brought John to humiliating tears; and then with an awkward pat, Lestrade had forgiven John.)

 John kept no notes on his computer, and made few notes on paper.  What paper notes he made, he converted to his own personal brand of shorthand and, after inking a few reminders on the skin of his forearm, burned the papers in the fireplace.  The USB’s burned, too.  He saved no files to his laptop.  Ninety-nine percent of John’s investigative findings were committed to memory, the ink marks on his arm merely mnemonic devices, reviewed and re-inked with every shower or washing up.  If discovered, they would mean nothing to Mycroft or to Moriarty.

 He fingered the button on the cuff of his right wrist.  He didn’t think he would need to refer to any of his marks today.  After sifting through all his information so many times, he was ready.  It was time to present what he had seen, what he had observed, and what he had deduced.  Time for Mycroft to confirm or deny. 

 Anthea popped her head up and said “Okay,” and gave a casual flip of her hand toward the door to Mycroft’s office.  John nodded, lifted his chin, and walked in, hoping she didn’t hear the nervous thud of his heartbeat as he passed by.

 Mycroft was not in the office.  John gave the room a quick visual once-over.  Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered it from his last visit.  He assumed he was being watched by at least one, if not several, camera angles, so he kept his observations inconspicuous.  Mycroft’s desk was plain, no papers, no computer, only the blotter with the multi-button landline to one side and the big red telephone to the other.  The same spindly guest chair was positioned in front of the desk. 

John sat down to wait, wondering if he should have worn his suit instead; if that concession to Mycroft’s penchant for formality would have signified the seriousness of his visit’s purpose.  John had ultimately decided to wear a familiar jumper and jeans, wishing to feel as comfortable and grounded as possible when confronting Mycroft on such an important subject.

After a few seconds, Mycroft entered, gliding in silently until he came to stand in front of John, who only half-rose for a moment for a silent nod of greeting before reseating himself.  Mycroft looked down at him (intimidation dynamics still in place, John noted) and gave him a synthetic smile.

“Doctor Watson, a pleasure.  How can I be of service to you today?”

“Well, I’m looking for some answers,” John stated, inwardly pleased that he was not coming across as the anxious, broken man he had been four and a half months ago.  Back then, he’d been overcome with self-recriminations and horror, but the intervening months had given John a healthy dose of purpose and skepticism.

Mycroft propped his hip on the front of his desk.  “What sort of answers?”

“Moriarty, for one.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up, apparently surprised at John’s directness (perhaps pleased?), and he crossed around to sit behind his desk.  He folded his hands on the desktop, false smile still in place.  “What about Moriarty?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”  John’s voice made it a statement and not really a question.

The smile was still pasted on, but John thought Mycroft looked more like he’d been licking lemons.

“Yes.”

“Right,  then.  Good.  How?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “I have _people_ , John.”

“All right.  When?”

After a long moment, Mycroft sighed.  “Does it really matter, Doctor?  The man responsible for my brother’s death has been eliminated.”

“Was he killed the same day as Sherlock?”

There was another pause from Mycroft, accompanied by a ghost of a frown and a slight narrowing of the eyes.  “What is this about, Doctor?”

John sat forward and tapped Mycroft’s desk blotter with his index finger, making firm eye contact.  “Did you bury Moriarty in Sherlock’s grave?”

That got a reaction, John noted with pride.  Mycroft’s breath hitched in the tiniest of gasps, but John caught it. 

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft spat.  He paused, his head cocked off to the side in thought, and then asked, “How can you even ask such a thing, Doctor?”

John rested both his palms face down on Mycroft’s desk and leaned forward a bit more, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart so that he could observe every facet of Mycroft’s reaction to his next statement.

"Sherlock’s alive.  It’s Moriarty buried under his tombstone.” 

He watched a flash of something ignite in Mycroft’s eyes before the man gave a long, slow sigh and stood, breaking eye contact.  He calmly stepped over to a side table on the far wall, his back to John, and when he came back he perched a box of tissues on his desk in front of John.  “My dear Doctor Watson,” Mycroft droned in his most arrogant tone.  “Perhaps I was a bit hasty before in urging you to fire your therapist.  Clearly you still have some major issues to resolve.  Fanciful thinking is not going to help you get over Sherlock’s death.”

Mycroft’s mobile chimed in his jacket pocket, and while John struggled to contain an angry retort regarding the tissue box and Mycroft’s insulting and thinly veiled reference to John’s behavior at their last meeting, Mycroft glanced at the text.  He then set the phone in the middle of the blotter, no doubt so he could follow any further texts while he sorted out this silly business with John.  He sat back down and rested his elbows on top of his desk, steepling his fingers similar to the way Sherlock would do.  He touched his forefingers to his lips, thinking, and then lowered his hands.

 “I assure you, John.  As painful as this may be for you to accept, Sherlock’s body is right where it should be.”

“Right, then.  Prove it,” John challenged.  “Exhume the body and prove it.”

That got to him.  John had only seen Mycroft raise his voice in anger once, when Sherlock had worn nothing but a sheet to BuckinghamPalace, but this easily eclipsed that occasion.  Mycroft not only raised his voice, but turned it to steel, clipping his words ruthlessly.  “I will most certainly do nothing of the sort!  It is not up to me to convince you, Doctor!”

 “No?” 

 “Of course not,” Mycroft sighed, gaining control over his anger, glancing at another text.  “Really, Doctor.  Sherlock alive and Moriarty in his grave?  How ever did you come up with such a silly idea?”

John felt a feral smile capture his face.  Here was the opening that he wanted.  “Actually, Mycroft, I can explain to you _exactly_ how I came up with this ‘silly idea’.”

John pushed the tissue box out of the way.  He wouldn’t be needing that.  Instead he settled back into the stiff chair, confident in his ability to relate his facts.  Sherlock had taught him well.  He would explain his thought process, his observations, and his deductions that had led him to come to his conclusion.

“All right.  Good.  Yes.  I don’t dispute that I was a mess the last time I was here”, John started, pleased that his voice remained clear and steady.  “Seeing Sherlock fall, thinking about how he could have come to that point emotionally, thinking about all the things I could have said or done differently… Mycroft, your genius brother can be short-tempered, self-centered, impatient, rude, egotistical, and inappropriate, but I love him to pieces, and I was utterly _destroyed_ by what had happened.  But you were right back then—I do think he knew how I felt.  On the other hand, though, you were wrong about Sherlock being incapable of understanding love.  Maybe he wouldn’t have known exactly what _word_ to put to how he felt, but I think he felt it all the same, whether he recognized it as such or not.”

Mycroft’s left brow rose in a dubious expression, “Really, Doctor?  I believe you yourself once told me that ‘Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way’.”

“Well, I was wrong.  He kept her camera phone, remember,” John raised an eyebrow to make his point, hesitated a moment for it to sink in, and then continued.

“So I took the time to think about what you said, and what I knew to be true, and I started to understand what Sherlock had done.  There were things he said and did that day that just weren’t….on.  When he called me from the roof, he tried to tell me he was a fake, and that the newspapers were right all along, that his genius was just a magic trick… ” John paused and shook his head, giving a negative wave of his hand.  “But no.  Nope.  I knew better.  I’d seen too much of what he can do, and I would never doubt him.  And he _knew_ that—he _knew_ that—yet there he was trying desperately to convince me.  He tried so hard to persuade me he was a fake that he even pretended to cry.”

Mycroft tilted his head.  “Pretended?  Oh, John.  Will you not even respect Sherlock’s tears?  Do you not think that my dear brother could have been in such a fragile emotional state when he took his own life?”

John shook his head once, adamantly, and held his palm up.  “No.  No, I’ve seen Sherlock turn on fake tears before, just to get information for a couple of cases.  It was easy as turning on a tap.  And he never cared what other people thought of him.  _I_ cared, and he couldn’t understand why I did.  Crying, telling me he was a fake…it was all a ruse, just like making me think that Mrs. Hudson had been shot.”

“And why would he try to trick you like that?”  Mycroft had a full-on skeptical expression now, even his right nostril twitching in a thinly veiled sneer.

“Isn’t it obvious, Mycroft?  To protect me.  From the time that Sherlock handed over the memory stick with the Bruce-Partington plans last year, Moriarty knew that I was the way he could get to Sherlock.  And he’d warned Sherlock then that he’d ‘burn the heart out of him’.  Even at his trial, Moriarty made a point of turning around and making a face at me to acknowledge he knew I was there.”

Giving an impatient sigh, Mycroft broke in.  “So Moriarty knew that Sherlock would protect you.  How do these sentimental suppositions get us to your ridiculous idea of Moriarty being in Sherlock’s grave?”

_Ridiculous?_   John sighed.  He could tell that Mycroft wasn’t taking him seriously.  “Should have worn the suit,” he mumbled under his breath, grimacing. 

“Excuse me, Doctor?”

John shook his head and pressed on.  “It wasn’t just for me.  He was protecting me, Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade, and probably Molly, too.  Moriarty had carved an “I.O.U.” into an apple he left in our flat that day he was acquitted.  That was a threat against me, yeah?  Then I found a couple of vandalism reports of I.O.U.’s in spray paint—one in the office windows directly opposite Lestrade’s office, another directly across from Mrs. Hudson’s front door.  Maybe there was another for Molly, but there were no other reports.  And I remembered, that when I went on that wild goose chase thinking Mrs. Hudson had been shot—there was a very rough-looking character there helping her out with some kind of electrical repair.  In hindsight, I thought—another hit man, like the ones you showed me?  So then I realized, when Sherlock had said that morning that he wanted me to tell Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly that he was a fake….  He named them because was trying to tell me that the people he cared about were in danger.”

John paused uncomfortably as he suddenly realized that Mycroft was not included in that group.  He glanced at Mycroft’s expression, but could glean nothing but perhaps more vague amusement.  He waited while Mycroft scanned two more texts, wanting to be sure he still had the man’s full attention, regardless of his opinion of John’s conclusions.  When Mycroft looked back at him and gave him a nod, John continued.

“So here’s where I started thinking about Sherlock’s mobile.  Had Sherlock had received any texts or made any contact with Moriarty in those last few minutes?  If so, could I confirm my ideas on who was in danger and how?  I went to DI Lestrade to see if I could get my hands on it, but he told me that no phone had been recovered from the scene.  I knew that had to be wrong—I’d definitely seen Sherlock toss his phone onto the roof right before he… but Lestrade assured me no phone was included in Sherlock’s personal effects.  So I wanted to figure out what happened to it.”

“Does it matter what happened to it?  Maybe it just fell to the street and was picked up by some passerby.”

“Or… you have it?”  John raised his brows in accusation.

“What if I do?”  The side of Mycroft’s artificial smile turned up at the corner slyly.

“May I see it?”

Mycroft tilted his head a moment, thinking.  “I don’t see the harm in it.  However I don’t have it here.  I can arrange to have it delivered to you if you would like.”

“That would be after you’ve deleted all the pertinent texts and call history, of course, hmmm?”

“Sherlock is dead,” Mycroft sighed with an air of utter boredom.  “Moriarty is dead.  Why would I alter his mobile at this point?”

John shrugged, shaking his head, and told himself not to get distracted by Mycroft’s attempts to deflect from John’s point.  “You know what?  It doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that when we couldn’t explain what happened to his phone, I went up to the roof to check for myself.  Didn’t find it, obviously, so Lestrade checked CCTV cameras, to see if we could figure out what happened to it.  Odd thing though—Sherlock picked the one spot on the hospital exterior not covered by CCTV.”

“A shame, really, Doctor.  But for that, then I wouldn’t have to sit here listening to this foolishness.  You’d have been able to see once and for all how _very_ dead by brother is.”

John snorted.  Was he imagining it, or did Mycroft seem to be getting a bit defensive?  If so, John could only think it was a good sign. 

“But you know what Lestrade _did_ see on the footage from that morning?  Ten minutes before Sherlock fell, every person walking down on street level jumped, like they were startled by a loud noise.  People looked up, and around, but then went on with their business, as if they couldn’t figure out what made the noise.”

“Or maybe they figured out the cause and were unconcerned…”

John nodded.  “I thought of that, too, but if Sherlock were investigating, he wouldn’t have let it go, so neither did I.” 

The corner of Mycroft’s lips quirked into a little smile at that, and John went on to explain that as Sherlock was trying to tell him he was a fake, when he said he invented Moriarty, he half turned and looked down behind himself.  He even used a phrase that was similar to something Moriarty had said once— _that’s what people do!_ So when Sherlock said “ _This phone call…it’s…it’s my note.  It’s what people do, don’t they?  Leave a note?”_ John’s first thought was that it was Moriarty on the roof, maybe with a gun on Sherlock, and had forced him to jump.

“That doesn’t make sense, John.”

“No.  I mean yes, you’re right, it didn’t make any sense.  Knowing Sherlock, he’d take his chances with getting shot over jumping.  But what if that noise people heard earlier had been gunfire, and they couldn’t figure out where it came from because it was from the roof?”

Mycroft’s mobile chimed with another text which he barely acknowledged.  “I still don’t see the connection, Doctor, between this line of inquiry and your preposterous theory.  Could you please get to the point?”

“Right.  I’m getting there,” John soothed, holding up an index finger for patience.  “Now I know Sherlock wasn’t shot, and I found no bullets or bullet holes up there on the roof.  But I still felt that Sherlock had been trying to tell me something about Moriarty, there on the roof behind him.  And I figured that a gun was involved.  So I made a few inquiries, did a few searches online, raided Sherlock’s stash of chemicals back at the flat, and made my own batch of luminol.  I finagled my way up to the roof again and sprayed it in the area where I thought Sherlock had turned to look.”

Two more texts chimed to Mycroft’s phone in quick succession, and John paused while Mycroft scanned them impassively.

“I found that there had been _blood_ there.  A lot of densely pooled blood, but not enough for a total bleed-out.  I’m a doctor and a soldier, so I know what it was.  It was the kind of blood puddle that is made when someone is mortally wounded and dies quickly.  The heart stops pumping blood before the body bleeds out its blood volume.  So because Sherlock looked in that direction when he said Moriarty’s name, I think it’s logical to assume that the passers heard gunfire when Sherlock must have killed Moriarty up there.”  John paused and leaned forward, folding his hands together on Mycroft’s desk.  “You really didn’t have your _people_ eliminate Moriarty, did you?  He was already dead.  You just covered it up, right?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed quietly, and folded his hands on the desk blotter, mirroring John.  Blinking at another text message, he spoke softly.  “All right, John.  I did have Moriarty’s death covered up.  With all the bad press against my poor brother at that time, can you blame me for wanting to protect him, even posthumously, from also the pall of a death inquiry?”

John had to stifle a smile.  It felt like a major accomplishment to not only catch Mycroft in a lie, but to get him to admit it.  Now he just had to see if there were any more lies he could catch him on.  “Right.  I don’t blame you for that, no.  That was…good.”

“I must say, Doctor,” Mycroft’s lips turned up in a semi-smile that almost looked fond.  “All your work, all your deductions, remind me very much of Sherlock.”

Ducking his head, John couldn’t stop a genuine smile.  Even if everything else today went to hell, it was still good to have earned that praise from Mycroft.  “Thank you.  I consider that a very high compliment.”

“However,” Mycroft continued, leaning back in his desk chair, elbows on the arms, and his fingers steepled in front of him.  “None of this even remotely proves your theory that Sherlock is alive.  I’ll credit you for deducing that I have his mobile, and that I had Moriarty’s death covered up.  But I’m afraid, dear Doctor, that this is as far as it goes.”

John sat forward, perched on the edge of his chair, and wagged his index finger sharply.  “No.  No.  If you think that’s as far as it goes, you’re wrong.”

Mycroft angled his head and had the audacity to look amused.  “Really, Doctor.  Enlighten me.”

Nodding, John tried to keep from bouncing out of his chair in eagerness to get this done.  When a text chimed in on Mycroft’s mobile, John tapped the desktop to keep his attention.  “Okay.  Yes.  If you think that’s as far as it goes, then why, if Sherlock had already killed Moriarty, would he still have had to jump off the roof to protect us?”

“I’m sure you have a theory on that too.”  Mycroft prodded, looking bored, and raised an eyebrow, reading the latest text.

Irritated at the apparent disinterest, John slammed his fist down on the desktop, half-rising up, barely stopping himself from reaching across the desk to throttle Mycroft.  “Dammit, this is _important!_   Can’t you turn that damn thing off for one bloody minute?!”

Mycroft’s cool response was accompanied by yet another raised eyebrow.  “I am a busy man, Doctor, and I have to attend to a great many things during a day’s work.  I’m giving you as much attention as I can spare, because you were my brother’s friend.  But do not presume that because I am humoring you enough to meet with you that it means that I am going to swallow any of these fantasies you wish to serve up.”

John huffed and stood up angrily, wanting more than anything else to punch that smug, prim face, but knowing that however much satisfaction that would give, he still needed Mycroft to hear him out.  He raked his hand through his hair and took a couple of calming breaths.  He exhaled slowly and sat back down. 

“Okay.  Look.  Just listen.  Just—please—hear me out.”  John didn’t wait for a response, just kept on talking.  “Sherlock said…he said goodbye to me… and flung his mobile down to the roof.  And then he stood up tall, with his chin up and arms out.”  John stood up and gave a brief demonstration of the scene that would be forever seared into his memory.  “He hesitated a second, and then…” 

“My brother always so liked to be dramatic.”

“Yes,” John agreed, blowing out an impatient breath.  “Yes, he did.  But this was more than that.  He _wanted_ to be seen.  He wanted to make sure that somebody saw that he jumped.”

“You, of course.”

John nodded.  “Yes.  Me, of course.  But he also needed Moriarty’s _people_ to see it.  You have _people_ , Mycroft, but so did Moriarty.  Because even with Moriarty already dead, Sherlock was still protecting me,” John fought to keep his throat from closing up on the anguish that memory brought to him.

Sighing, Mycroft pursed his lips impatiently.  “Which still leaves Sherlock dead, his skull exploded on the pavement.”

Taken aback by the cruelty of the image Mycroft painted, John swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously, sudden doubt blooming in his mind.  Did Mycroft’s callousness indicate that this day would not end well?  Determined to finish without giving Mycroft any satisfaction for bringing over that tissue box, John cleared his throat and raised his chin.

“He needed me to see.  He needed me to _believe_ it, to _grieve_ and _suffer_ and _mourn_ him, so that Moriarty’s people would believe it too.  It was my grief, my belief that Sherlock had died, that kept me safe.  That kept all of us safe.”

Another text chimed through and John thought about making an attempt to snatch the bloody phone and stomp on it, but decided he didn’t need to exacerbate the interruption. 

“So here’s the thing,” he went on quickly, looking Mycroft straight in the eye.  “I saw Sherlock jump, and fall, and I believed it.  I saw him jump, but then I realized I never actually saw him _land on the ground._   There were some parked vehicles on the street that were in the way, so I never actually _saw_ it.  I started to run over there, but a kid on a bike crashed into me and I fell, and was a bit dazed, and I was slow getting up.  Then by the time I got over to where he was, there was already a big crowd of people around him.  So I said I was a doctor and his friend, and they should let me through, but they _wouldn’t!_   Why not let a doctor through?  They held me back, would hardly let me see him…I barely had a chance to touch his arm and try to find a pulse…”

“I assume that someone was trying to spare you the sight of seeing a friend in that disturbing condition.”

“Or were they trying to keep me from seeing him more clearly?”

Mycroft shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Doctor.  I know you want your theory to be true, but you saw him yourself.  You saw he was lifeless, you saw the blood, you felt no pulse…”

“You were the one who said I’d have to be Sherlock Holmes to fool you with a faked death, back when you told me about Irene Adler!  And here, here he was fooling me and everyone else.  You and I both know that if Sherlock wanted to appear dead, there are a number of ways to make that happen.”

“But I’m afraid you don’t have any proof of any of that, do you?”

John started to lean forward with his hands on Mycroft’s desk again, but saw his hands were trembling so he pulled them back to his lap.  “Actually, I think I do have some proof.”

“Impossible.”

“No.  Not impossible,” John shook his head.  “Sherlock was a genius.  He’d know to draw his own blood in advance so there wouldn’t be a DNA issue.  He’d know to use a rubber ball under his arm to stop his pulse—and it just so happens that Sherlock was tossing a rubber ball around one of the last times I saw him in the lab at Bart’s.  Or he’d know of probably several ways to induce a temporary death via one drug or another.” 

John paused to take a breath.  His heart was beating so fast.  He could feel sweat breaking out all up and down his spine.  He didn’t even care that another text came through for Mycroft.

“I wanted to talk to Molly about whether she’d found the ball in her lab afterward, and whether Sherlock had asked her for any drugs or chemicals, but she has never returned any of my calls or texts.  I thought at first it was because she blamed me, that I should have been able to stop him somehow.  And for a long time, I agreed with her so I didn’t push it.  But then when I texted her and asked if I could see the autopsy report, she changed her number.”

“I can’t say that I blame her.  I’m almost contemplating the same tactic myself after taking this meeting with you.”

“Shut-up, Mycroft, and listen!  Just…listen,” John ordered, hoping he sounded more angry than terrified, because that definitely wasn’t the case.  But he was almost done, and then he’d know the truth, even though he wasn’t entirely sure at this point if he’d be able to bear it if he was wrong about everything.  “I asked a friend to get me a copy of the autopsy report, and I finally managed to make myself look through it.”

“Doctor, please.”

John didn’t need to go into how hard it was to open up the file and examine the report and photos.  Mycroft didn’t need to hear how many tears and how much vomit was involved before he could even glance at the file contents.  All Mycroft needed to know was what John had finally been able to observe. 

“No.  No.  Listen.  Sure there was the picture of Sherlock with his eyes closed, his face bloodied, looking dead.  But was he?  I’ve been to war.  I’ve seen skulls blown out from enemy and self-inflicted gunshots, from shrapnel, from concussion blasts… So when I really examined the picture of the back of his head… the head wound…it became clear to me that it was not Sherlock.  There were no multiple impact fractures, no debris embedded deep...  What I saw was a skull blown out from the _inside_.  One single skull breach, with all the marks of a gunshot wound entering from the facial area and exiting the back of the skull.  And once I looked even closer, it even looked as if a few curls of hair were just laid on top and around the wound.  There was a difference in color and texture of the curls on top, as opposed to the hair directly around the wound.”

John swallowed.  “I think the one autopsy picture of the fatal wound was of Moriarty, with some of Sherlock’s curls strewn on top to trick the casual observer.”

Mycroft’s mobile chimed with three quick texts, within seconds of each other. 

“Sherlock is still alive,” John concluded, his voice only trembling a fraction.  “He faked his suicide.  And you’re in on it.  You, your people, and Molly, and maybe some of Sherlock’s street people…you all helped him pull this off.  It’s why it was so important to him that I stood in exactly that spot.  That’s why you’re still paying the rent at Baker Street, and why you wouldn’t take his things.  You _know_ he’s coming back.  You know he’s coming back as soon as the threat against me and the others is over!”

When he stopped, John realized he was breathless, trembling, and panting, waiting for Mycroft’s response, a response that could mean everything to him.  As unreadable as ever, Mycroft paused as he scanned his incoming texts. 

Suddenly, the red telephone on Mycroft’s desk rang.  Just once, a shrill jangling, and then it stopped.  Mycroft didn’t pick up the handset, but stood immediately and stalked quickly toward the office door. 

“Stay put right there, Doctor.  Something very important has come up and I will return as soon as I can.  Do _not_ _move_ from that chair, do you hear me?!”  He didn’t wait for John to answer and left swiftly, pulling the door closed behind him.

John was so startled by the turn of events that he actually did follow Mycroft’s order for a moment or two.  The single ring from that ominous red phone must mean something really serious had happened.  What was it?  Thermo-nuclear war?  A terrorist attack? An assassination?  A coup?

Mycroft had left in such a hurry, his mobile was still sitting in the middle of his desktop.  John stood up, momentarily thinking that maybe he should try to catch Mycroft and get this to him, before he remembered the order to remain right there.  John knew that imperative tone of voice well from his days in the military, and wasn’t apt to disobey an order like that, even if it was from Mycroft.

Still, his curiosity got the better of him, as he recalled that flurry of annoying texts Mycroft had received as John had talked.  Hoping to get a clue as to what the red phone crisis may be, John leaned slightly over, tilting his head, trying to read the latest texts upside-down.

\-- TELL HIM!!!—SH

\--LET ME OUT OF HERE!—SH

Seeing those initials, John’s heart stopped and it felt as if it did a complete fibrillating somersault in his chest.  It felt like the percussive blast of an IED back in Afghanistan.  He gasped and grabbed the mobile in both shaking hands, fumbling to scroll back through the messages.

\--Discourage this.  He has no idea how much danger this could put him in—SH

\--Wait.  Let him talk.  See what he knows—SH

\--If theoretical conclusions merely based on sentiment, you must dissuade him—SH

\--But if only based on sentiment, be kind to him—SH

\--He’s just conjecturing.  No proof that sound=gunshot—SH

\--Made his own luminol!  Clever!—SH

\--Told you my John was smart!—SH

\--Even if he knows Moriarty=dead, still no link to me=alive—SH

\--He’s got something else.  Find out what it is—SH

\-- Don’t be such an arse to him!—SH

\--He’s got the heart of it.  May as well read him in now.  No point in further denial—SH

\--Tell him the truth.  He’s earned it.  Let me talk to him —SH

\--Tell him!  If you don’t he’ll only try to find more proof=Dangerous—SH

\-- TELL HIM!!!—SH

\--LET ME OUT OF HERE!—SH

John heard himself laughing out loud, and he pumped a fist wildly in the air as joy and relief overtook him in a tsunami of emotion.  Sod thermo-nuclear war—Sherlock was alive!  John had been right!  _Oh God, he’d been right!_   John’s heart restarted with a resounding thud, pumping adrenaline so quickly through his veins that he felt light-headed and giddy. 

“Sher—Sherlock—!” he heard, and realized that the gasping, high-pitched voice was his own.

From the outer office there came a series of loud bumps and an unmistakable crash of something glass, and then boisterous shouts.  There were a number of male voices yelling, more banging, and Mycroft’s authoritative shout ringing out over the din. 

But then, the deep bellow that answered Mycroft nearly caused John’s legs to give out.  It was the magnificent, precious, imperious notes of a rich baritone voice that John had despaired of ever hearing again.

“Sher—,” John whispered, and began to run toward the office door, but it was like running in a dream; his legs were leaden, the room tunneled, and he felt too weak to draw breath.  John wanted to curse and scream and shout out so that Sherlock would know he was in here, trying desperately to get to him, but his vision was beginning to close in, blurs of black haze encroaching around the edges.

Then the door burst open with such force that it slammed loudly against the wall, reverberating throughout the whole room, and Sherlock exploded through the doorway, shouting “John!  John!” despite the futile, last ditch efforts of a very large security guard to grab him by the arm.  There was a loud ripping sound as Sherlock’s sleeve gave way, and then there he was standing in Mycroft’s office, staring open-mouthed at John, gasping for breath, his sleeve inverted and dangling from his wrist, his nose bloodied and his lip split, his hair long and wild, and his dark-circled eyes wide.  At that moment, he was the without question the most beautiful thing that John had ever seen.


	3. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are finally reunited. Sentiment in abundance.

 

 

“John.”  All other sound fell away as Sherlock said his name.  They just stood frozen, staring at each other, and even though Sherlock’s voice was rough-edged and a bit breathless, John thought the sound sweeter than any strains of violin music Sherlock had ever played.

 “Sherlock,” John replied, and tried to think of something more profound to say, but it was for naught because he couldn’t stop laughing.  Actually, the sounds John heard coming from his own throat had no more dignity than girlish giggles.  “Oh, God,” he panted, hearing hysteria edging into his voice, “I was right.  Sherlock.  I was right!”

 Sherlock stood still, looking a bit hesitant.  Then the left side of his mouth drew up in a crooked, cautious grin, so familiar and so missed.  “It’s…very good to see you, John.”

 “Oh, God.  I was right!  I was right!”  John repeated stupidly, unable to think past this thought that stuck like a needle in a scratched record groove.  He’d been so afraid to hope for this, he hadn’t really allowed himself to think beyond finding out if his deductions were correct.  But even if he had, he would have expected a more dramatic, more movie-esque reunion, and not this undignified imitation of a teenaged girl.  “I was right!” he laughed again, and then he found himself stumbling forward on wobbly legs, arms outstretched, needing to touch, to verify, that he, indeed, was right, and that this beautiful man before him was no hallucination, no dream.

The grin disappeared as John staggered toward him, and Sherlock took one wary step back, his eyes widening slightly.

_Oh._  John belatedly remembered that Sherlock never appreciated sentiment, and rarely touched anyone, but by this point John’s legs were too jellied to have the strength to stop his momentum.  He crashed forward into Sherlock, clutching his arms around Sherlock’s waist to try to maintain his balance.  He buried his face into Sherlock’s chest and held him tightly, wishing he could do something besides giggle.  The slender body in his arms was breathing, warm, and real; the heart beating rapidly; and John hugged him with all his might.  He tried to take a calming breath, but only got a nose full of all the scents that he knew to be Sherlock, which only exacerbated his emotional high.

“Oh, God.  It _is_ you.  Sherlock.  Sherlock.  It’s you!  I was right!”

Against his cheek, John felt the vibration of a low chuckle rumble up from Sherlock’s chest.  “Yes, John, indeed you were.”

Sherlock was standing rigid in John’s embrace, his arms awkwardly holding John up, as if he thought John might totally collapse—it still would not be outside the realm of possibility at this point, John admitted to himself.  He pulled away from Sherlock slightly so he could look up and savor the sight of him once more, whole, alive.  As he suspected, even with blood trickling from his nose and lip, Sherlock looked mostly composed and slightly indignant, his left eyebrow raised as he returned John’s gaze.  He looked so… _Sherlock_.  Exactly as John had remembered him.

It only made John laugh more, the familiarity of the expression making tiny bubbles of happiness fizz in his belly.

He reached a hand up to cup around Sherlock’s head, relishing the smooth curve of an uncrushed skill, and the softness of wild curls not sodden with blood.  He pulled Sherlock’s face down to him, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, warm and smooth, and then hugged the surprised Sherlock even tighter.

“Oh don’t be an arse,” John chided giddily at Sherlock’s stiffness, “After all this, you owe me a bit of a kiss and a cuddle, yeah?”

There was a moment before Sherlock reacted, and John felt the low vibration as Sherlock laughed quietly for a second time. 

“I believe you may be correct again, John,” Sherlock said warmly, and then John felt himself folded into an affectionate embrace, one of Sherlock’s hands ghosting softly over the back of his head in slow, sweet caresses, the other patting his back with awkward clunks.  Sherlock’s cheek pressed against the top of John’s head.  It felt good, so deliciously wonderful, to be surrounded in Sherlock.  The whole time John was doing his investigation, whenever his control slipped and he dangerously dared to picture this day, this is exactly what it always felt like it would be.  Light.  Sweet.  Glorious.

“John?”  Sherlock’s arms released him and he took a small step back to look John in the eye more easily.  “I am confused.  Are you laughing, or are you crying?”

John chuckled, about to chide Sherlock for not observing the obvious giggles that had been bubbling from him for the last couple minutes, but then he realized how blurry Sherlock’s face appeared.  He raised his hand to rub his eyes and felt wetness on his lashes, around his eyes, and in fact, covering his cheeks.

He gave a surprised little snort and wiped his eyes in his shirt cuffs.  “I don’t really know.  Both, I guess.”

He blinked up at Sherlock’s bewildered expression, the laughter and tears subsiding a bit as he realized blood was still slowly dripping from Sherlock’s nose.  He took a slow breath and shut his eyes a moment, forcing himself to pull it together.  He didn’t want to embarrass Sherlock any further with this uncontrolled sentiment that had overtaken him, and he really should check out Sherlock’s injuries, regardless of how superficial they appeared at first glance.  His control finally returned as he transitioned into his doctor persona, and he grasped Sherlock’s forearm and led him to the small chair by Mycroft’s desk.  “Come on, love, let’s get that nose and lip sorted, hmm?”

Sherlock’s brows rose and a quick twitch of a smile curled the side of his lips momentarily as he followed John compliantly and sat as indicated.  John grabbed several tissues and folded them together to daub at the blood.  It was good, John thought as he took another deep, calming breath, to have something purposeful to do, otherwise he feared he may just giggle and sniffle the afternoon away, just like the idiot Sherlock had often accused him of being.  As he got down on a knee beside the chair, John glanced behind Sherlock and realized that Mycroft, Anthea, and the same security guard from earlier still were hovering uncomfortably near the doorway, trying not to appear to be watching.  Mycroft had that lemon-licking expression again, while Anthea (as usual) looked bored at her Blackberry, and the guard had the beginnings of a terrific black eye and bruised jaw purpling the left side of his face.

“Can I get some water and maybe a first aid kit?” John asked, and with a subtle nod from Mycroft, Anthea left the room. 

_Damn.  Cried in front of Mycroft again._   John avoided eye contact with Mycroft as he shrugged away his embarrassment ( _Small price to pay.  And totally worth it_ ), and nudged Sherlock to tip his head back a little farther to maximize the room lighting.  He cupped his hand behind Sherlock’s head to brace him a bit and keep him from shrinking back as he examined his injuries.

“Nose doesn’t look broken,” John murmured, running his fingertips gently over the bone and cartilage, savoring the freedom to touch this beautiful and sorely missed face.  He began to dab at Sherlock’s split lip.  “Cut on your lip is just superficial. I don’t think any stitches are necessary.”

“John?”  Sherlock’s pale eyes were studying John as he worked, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead.  “I don’t understand.”

Anthea returned with a basin of water, a towel, and first aid supplies, and set them on Mycroft’s desk next to where John had dropped the mobile a few minutes ago, and then after a few quiet words from Mycroft, all three of their onlookers left the room.  John heard the click as the door shut quietly.  _Thank you, Mycroft,_ John thought silently, grateful for the privacy.

“Hmm?  What don’t you understand?”  John asked absently, wetting some gauze to wash the blood gently from Sherlock’s face and neck.

There was still a small, thoughtful frown on Sherlock’s forehead, tiny lines that John wouldn’t have been able to see if he weren’t this close (which, John realized with a certain flush of both shame and pleasure, was a bit of a treat).  He’d forgotten how the skin at the top of Sherlock’s nose would wrinkle when he frowned, and he found it quite endearing to see it again now.

“You laughed.  You cried.  You hugged me, and you…you even kissed me,” Sherlock said softly, and blinked, seemingly perplexed by the whole situation.  “Why?”

“Why?!” John repeated with a chuckle, astonished.  How could Sherlock be such a genius at observation and deduction, yet still be so oblivious to emotional cues?  “Because I got my miracle, Sherlock.  Because you’re _not dead!”_

And now that he’d washed the blood from Sherlock’s dear face, John leaned in the last few inches and kissed his cheek, softly and quickly, unable to stop himself.  Sherlock seemed amenable to the affection at the moment, and John felt he had better take advantage of Sherlock’s compliant mood while it lasted.  He wouldn’t push his luck with anything too extreme or demonstrative, in deference to Sherlock’s well-known aversion to sentiment.  And besides, he knew they were probably still being observed on camera somewhere, but Mycroft be damned as far as John was concerned.  John felt a bit entitled to some emotional extremism at this point.

Sherlock frowned a little deeper, so lost in thought that he may not have even registered John’s kiss.  “But John, why are you so _happy_?”

John set aside the bloodied gauze and gave a quiet snort of amusement as he checked whether Sherlock’s nose had finally stopped bleeding.  “Do keep up, Sherlock,” John teased, using Sherlock’s frequent words against him.  “Didn’t you hear the part about _not dead?”_

“Yes, yes, of course I did,” Sherlock snapped as John dabbed clean, moist gauze over the drying blood just inside his nostril.  Sherlock continued as if nothing so intimate were occurring.  “But I had anticipated that when this day came you would be furious with me.  I expected that you might express your anger…violently.”  Sherlock blinked at John.  “I was quite prepared that you would punch me on sight.”

“Well, actually, it looks like somebody already beat me to it.” John gave him a grin, and dusted his thumb affectionately across the dark bruise on Sherlock’s cheek.  “If that’s what you thought, I guess that explains why you flinched when I approached you”.

“I’m serious, John.  I faked my death, and kept it a secret from you all this time.  Logic would dictate that you should be furious with me.  The data doesn’t-- I need new data.  I don’t understand why you’re not angry.”

John shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  Satisfied that Sherlock was no longer bleeding, he discarded the gauze and sighed, searching within himself for an honest answer.  Sherlock’s reasoning seemed logical, and it wasn’t as if John never got angry with Sherlock before, but John could find no anger in his heart, only the warm glow of happiness and relief.  With the hand still bracing Sherlock’s neck, he absently stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and shifted on his knees as he replied. 

“Okay.  I can see why you might expect that.  The last six months have been bloody hell, and that day I thought you died was the worst day of my life.  I mourned you every day since then.  I’m not happy I had to go through all that.  It would have been nice to have been let in on the secret.  And maybe tomorrow or sometime in the future, it just might all catch up to me, and maybe I’ll slug you then.  But for right now, just tell me one thing, Sherlock,” John’s free hand tilted Sherlock’s chin so that their eyes met, and Sherlock would see the seriousness of John’s next question.  “Was there any other way?  Was there any other choice you could have made?”

Sherlock’s pale eyes looked…haunted.  It wasn’t an expression that John was familiar with on this face, and he didn’t like the sadness he saw in those beautiful blue-gray eyes.

“No,” Sherlock whispered, shaking his head, but not looking away.

“Well, then,” John slid his hands down Sherlock’s arms and grasped his forearms, his fingers absently stroking the odd contrast of one arm bare, one sleeved.  “If _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ couldn’t think of any other way, then I trust him that there really _was no other way.”_

Holding his gaze, Sherlock swallowed with difficulty as his eyes took on a strange brightness.  “Thank you, John,” he whispered, his voice low and ragged, and looked away, blinking, his chin shivering slightly.

Knowing how Sherlock normally despised sentiment, John felt a little unnerved by Sherlock’s emotional reaction.  He knew he should probably give Sherlock a moment and some space to recover his control, or change the subject to something lighter to allow them both to return to an air of normalcy.  Selfishly, however, all he really wanted to do was to keep touching Sherlock, keep reassuring himself of his solid reality; so under the guise of his medical profession, he lifted Sherlock’s bare arm and smoothed his fingers across the warm skin.

“Now that I’ve got all that blood taken care of, I should take a look at your arm.  He must have yanked on you pretty good to get your whole sleeve to tear off like that.  Any pain in your shoulder?”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock mumbled gruffly, and stood up, himself again, his emotions apparently beaten back into submission.

“Of course it is,” John sighed, fighting a grin.  “But let me take a look anyway, hmm?”  John rose too, and fumbled with the inverted sleeve to unbutton the cuff.  Even with the button released however, he had a hard time getting the sleeve off over Sherlock’s hand.  It turned out that Sherlock had a fat paperback book clutched in his hand.  John smiled as he pried the book loose from his long fingers. 

“This what you’re reading these days to fill your time?  Tolkien?”  Sherlock didn’t seem the fantasy fiction type, but then again, John had no idea what kind of reading material had been available to him.

Sherlock grunted.  “I find that even a paperback book, if substantial enough, has the ability to give my fist enough force to stun a large well-trained man with a punch to the face.”

John laughed, recalling the guard with the serious black eye and bruised jaw as he examined Sherlock’s reddened knuckles.  It certainly explained how Sherlock could overpower a man that size and escape into this room. “Any pain or tingling in your fingers or hand?”

Sherlock shook his head and flexed his hand, testing.  John found his eyes riveted on those long elegant fingers.  “Must I repeat myself?  I said I’m fine, John.”

“I’m sure you are.”  He still wanted to test Sherlock’s wrist, and then wanted rotate his elbow and shoulder joints to test for any partial dislocations, but knew Sherlock’s patience for such coddling was low, so he made conversation to ease the way.

“So, I assume from all the texts Mycroft received while I was talking with him that you were watching our meeting just before you came in…” John ventured. 

“As I suspect Mycroft is doing right now,” Sherlock responded with a look of bitter distaste.  “But yes, I was observing you.”

Checking for bruises and scrapes, John nodded.  “Did you observe me the last time I was here, a few months ago?”

_Did you hear me say I loved you?_   John didn’t know how to ask.  He didn’t know if he _should_ ask.  Had his sentimental declarations and pathetic weeping put Sherlock off?  Had it embarrassed him?  Disgusted him?

“Actually, John,” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, his eyes distant, lost in thought.  “I’ve observed you often—here, and whenever I can find you on CCTV.  However, I did not know until today that you were investigating my…‘death’.” 

Sherlock quirked a slight sheepish grin, and John wasn’t sure what to make of it— was Sherlock embarrassed to admit he was unable to deduce what John had been doing, or was it because of how much he had secretly watched John?  Either way, John decided, was flattering, and he grinned back.

“Good.  I wanted to keep it all secret,” John answered, pleased.  “So how did I do?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock frowned, only resisting John’s elbow manipulations a bit.

“I mean—the clues you left me…How did I do with my boring, funny little brain?”

John skimmed his hands up Sherlock’s arm, noting with dismay how thin he’d become, and then went on to flex Sherlock’s shoulder joint.  He knew it wasn’t needed, that Sherlock was as fine as he claimed, but he wanted to use any opportunity to be close to Sherlock, to keep touching him, lest he fade away like a dream.  He prodded the joint with his fingers as he manipulated Sherlock’s arm, but could feel nothing amiss.  He repeated the procedure, this time watching Sherlock’s face for any telltale wince. 

Sherlock showed no pain whatsoever, or even any acknowledgement of John’s unnecessary medical exam.  Instead, his dark-circled eyes were simply staring at John, his expression gentle and warm, and maybe even a bit amused. 

“What?” John asked.  “Was I that bad?”

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock’s mouth turned up at the corner in that crooked grin that John had missed so much. “I am actually quite proud of you.  You deduced almost everything correctly.” 

John felt his insides melt at those warm velvet words.  “I did?” he asked softly, realizing he was grinning like an idiot, basking in Sherlock’s approval.  “You taught me well.  _Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth,”_ he quoted modestly, knowing that even though he had done the work, it was only because he had learned how from Sherlock.  “I’m just sorry I took so long to figure out you were alive.”

“You did fine, John.  I know it was a…difficult time for you.”

John shrugged.  Difficult was an understatement of enormous magnitude, but there was no sense in belaboring the point.  Instead he prodded again, “So…I got ‘almost everything’ right?  Come on, tell me what I missed.”

“Not much, really,” Sherlock said softly and turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.  “You were right that I was there when Moriarty died, but I didn’t kill him.  He killed himself to prevent me from finding out how to call off the hit men who were under orders to kill you and the others.”

John cringed as he felt his eyes go wide, imagining how Sherlock must have felt when it happened, knowing then that there was no other way.  “Oh my God.  He really was insane, wasn’t he?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just shrugged, his back still turned.  John stepped close behind him and settled his palm in the center of Sherlock’s back.  “What else?”

“I don’t believe Molly was one of his intended victims.  He said there were three bullets, three gunmen, for you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade; but regardless I am functioning under the precaution that she may also be in danger, along with you and the others.  But I did use her to help me fake my suicide.”

John just nodded and gently stroked Sherlock’s back, feeling the rigid tension beneath his palm.  He’d strongly suspected Molly had been involved.  If he’d been able to talk to her, even once, he would have been able to confirm it.  Molly’s eyes or voice would never have been able to conceal from him that she knew something more.

Sherlock took a breath, held it a moment, then breathed it out slowly.  “And my tears, John?”  He turned his head just a bit to meet John’s gaze sidelong.  “They actually weren’t faked.  They were real.”

John stared.  _Could it be true?_   Sherlock’s tears had been one of the most painful aspects of that day.  They’d been the crux of innumerable nightmares.  John had been utterly heartbroken by the idea that Sherlock had been in so much pain that he’d cried and then jumped to his death.  Once John had convinced himself that there was something not on about those tears, that Sherlock had faked them, he had been able to pull himself together enough to explore the possibility that maybe the jump had been faked also.

But if the tears had been _real_ …If the tears had been real, then his entire basis for investigating the theory that Sherlock may have faked his death had been based on a false assumption!

“But…” John stuttered, confused and dismayed.  “But since when do you care what people think of you?”

Sherlock had stepped over toward the wall, gazing at a framed painting hanging above a side table.  John could tell that Sherlock’s interest in the artwork was purely an artifice to cover his discomfort over this topic of conversation.  He watched as Sherlock’s fingers flexed and clenched several times, betraying the tension in the tall, lean frame.

“Sherlock,” John said softly as he moved close to him again and touched his arm.  “You do know that I never once doubted you, right?”

Glancing at John for a moment, Sherlock nodded and then looked away again, swallowing roughly.  He cleared his throat, frowned, swallowed again, and then turned toward John. 

John could plainly see the emotion Sherlock was trying to suppress.  He stepped around closer to him and pressed his palm against Sherlock’s chest.  “It’s okay,” he whispered.  He didn’t need to hear this if it was going to cause his friend this much pain.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, as he turned and his hands reached out to grasp John’s shoulders.  His expression was intense, and troubled at the memory.  “I knew what I was going to do would hurt you.  I knew it would be bad for you.  You’re not like me.  You’re kind, and thoughtful, and soft-hearted, and sentimental…and I just didn’t want to do that to you.  I didn’t want to leave you that way.  And it was _killing_ me to have to hurt you the way I did.”

John saw the moist brightness in Sherlock’s eyes again, saw his lower lip turn down and tremble, and felt a physical pain rip into his heart.  He reached his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek.  “And that’s why you cried?”

Tears falling, Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. 

“Oh, God,” John whispered, stricken, and pulled Sherlock to him, petting his hair and holding tightly.  “It’s okay, Sherlock.  Really.  It’s all over now.” 

Sherlock’s arms wrapped firmly around him and he buried his face into crook of John’s neck.  John felt the wetness of his tears drip down the inside of his collar and he swayed side-to-side gently, trying to comfort, as he heard Sherlock’s unsteady breathing break into quiet sobs.  He felt ashamed.  This was the first time John really had given any thought to how much this might have affected Sherlock.  It was plain that John was not the only man who had been broken that day. 

“And when I saw what it did to you...” Sherlock wept, his voice muffled in John’s shoulder.

“Sshh.  It’s all right.  We made it through, both of us.  It’s done.  It’s all right,” John crooned, still petting Sherlock’s curls, still holding him tightly.  As much as it hurt to see his normally proud Sherlock this upset, it almost felt right, doing this, a bit like a second chance.  It felt like he’d finally been given the opportunity to do what he’d wanted to do so badly that horrible day, and always regretted that he’d been unable to—it was as if he now, finally, could hold and comfort that Sherlock who had cried up there on that rooftop so long ago.  And in a way, with this Sherlock here, he now had that chance.

Sherlock sniffed, and nodded against his neck, and seemed to compose himself, but kept John wrapped in a tight embrace as he began to even out his breathing.

“John,” Sherlock snuffled into John’s neck, his moist breath warming the skin cooled by the drying tears.  “You were right that I had deduced your feelings for me.”

“Good.”  John squeezed Sherlock in his arms even tighter.  It was a relief, really, to know that Sherlock had known all along.  Even if the suicide was faked, it still felt good now not to feel guilt over not taking the chance to say it that day.

“You were also right when you deduced that I felt the same for you.”

John felt his eyes go wide and hoped he wasn’t gaping too badly.  Regardless of how he had inferred Sherlock’s feelings, he never thought he’d ever hear him actually acknowledge it.  Heart pounding wildly in his chest, John leaned back and took Sherlock’s tear-streaked face in his shaking hands, and looked into Sherlock’s bright, shiny eyes that gazed back at him with more than a hint of trepidation. 

“Oh, Sherlock.  I love you,” John whispered, and sniffed, only belatedly realizing that his own tears had somehow began flowing unheeded again.

Sherlock’s hands gently framed John’s face, mirroring John’s, but John didn’t miss that Sherlock narrowly kept himself from rolling his eyes as he sighed with his customary impatience.  “I _know_.  We just covered that, John.”

John nodded and snorted a little laugh at that wonderful dose of Sherlock.  _Oh how he’d missed Sherlock, even with all his brutal little comments._   He gave him a little smile and brushed his thumbs over Sherlock’s face, drying the now forgotten tears as he confessed, “I had to say it, though.  Had to say it to you out loud.  Didn’t say it that day, but always wished I had.”

Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback, but not dismayed, his lips forming a silent ‘oh’ as his pale eyes studied John’s face.  John knew Sherlock was far out of his element here, but he vastly appreciated the effort Sherlock was making on his behalf.  He gave Sherlock a little grin meant to reassure.

And then, with his hands firmly holding John’s face in place, Sherlock closed his eyes and bent his head towards him. 

John’s breath caught as he realized what was coming.  _Was this even possible?!_   He closed his eyes and lifted his chin so he could welcome Sherlock’s lips.

It wasn’t exactly what he expected.  Sherlock’s lips were puckered tight, and when pressed against John’s mouth, he gave an audible _smack_ and quickly pulled back, peering at John anxiously.

_Oh God._  It was a _Grandmum_ kiss.  It was the kind of kiss John would press to his Grandmum’s cheek when she ransomed a piece of cake for a kiss.  It was the kind of kiss John had seen Sherlock give Mrs. Hudson.  _Was Sherlock really that inexperienced, or was he merely shy, or did he just want to ensure that John didn’t assume too much from it?_

John worked to hide his reaction to the odd, awkward kiss, suppressing a nervous giggle that threatened to bubble up from deep within.  Sherlock cleared his throat, looking somewhat bewildered and uncomfortable.  So that was it, John decided as he gazed up into Sherlock’s lovely, anxious eyes.  He was merely, sweetly, adorably _shy!_   When Sherlock parted his lips to speak, there was an uncharacteristic hesitation before he managed to say anything.  Finally he spoke, with a strange thickness in his voice. 

“I really find it curious that saying words already acknowledged and so obvious would give any pleasure or satisfaction, or be anything but utterly childish and dull.  But, oddly, I find that now I, too, would like to say the words, out loud, to you,” he whispered, his fingers trembling as they held John’s face.  “I do love you, John.”

John thought his knees might give out.  He could only gasp air for a moment, unable to decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry.  He’d never thought Sherlock would ever say anything like this, especially not to him.  Acknowledgement of the existence of Sherlock’s sentiment had been shocking enough, but hearing the actual words spoken so sweetly?  It shook John to his core.  Sherlock had always spoken of any sentimental emotion like love with such vehement disdain, as if he were so very above it all and completely immune from anything so mundane and ordinary.  He’d never said a word about his feelings for Irene Adler.  Yet, here he was, freely admitting that he loved John.  It was all a bit much to take in.

In the end, he just pulled Sherlock’s face to him and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, taking his time, keeping it soft and gentle, definitely not a Grandmum kiss, but sweet and loving.  Sherlock adapted quickly, his mouth melting against John’s, following his cues, holding the kiss as they breathed each other’s air. 

When they finally broke the kiss, John unexpectedly sobbed, just once, before he could regain control.

“Not good?”  Sherlock questioned, looking uncertain, his long fingers stroking John’s cheek.

John shook his head quickly, and brushed at his eyes with his shirtsleeves again, wanting to allay any doubts that Sherlock might have.  “Oh, it’s good.  It’s a bit brilliant, actually.  I thought I’d lost you forever, and now here you are alive and well, and saying sweeter things to me than I ever thought I’d hear.”  He chuckled quietly and teased, “Who are you and what have you done with my real Sherlock?” 

He tilted his face up and pulled Sherlock in for more non-Grandmum kissing.  He didn’t know if this would ever happen again, or if Sherlock had intended anything more romantic than his original chaste kiss, or if there would be any future, deeper continuation of what they’d started here.  He didn’t know what Sherlock intended his kisses to mean, but it didn’t matter.  He didn’t know why it didn’t bother him that he was kissing a man for the first time in his life, and actively wanting it, but it didn’t matter.  It was _Sherlock_.  Nothing else mattered.  There would be time enough to sort all the rest later.

Behind him, John heard the office door open.

“Oh, good Lord,” Mycroft exclaimed.  “There’s so much useless _sentiment_ permeating this room I may have to get it fumigated.”

 


	4. The Game Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock broke off in mid-sentence and whirled on him, pale eyes suddenly blazing. “Don’t be so stupid, John!” he spat angrily, his rich, thunderous baritone jarring John out of his sense of wonderment. “How can you even think I love this? I want to go home!” 
> 
> Now that John and Sherlock have been reunited, where do they go from here? Has anything really changed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on possible spoilers: This chapter proposes some ideas that I'd love to see in S3, but since I know nothing of S3 other than episode titles and the casting of a specific character from ACD canon, there are no real spoilers, only my wishful thinking. :) But of course if you don't know the episode titles or casting, and you feel it would be too much of a spoiler for you, then take heed and read at your own discretion!

Surprisingly, John did not feel particularly disturbed by Mycroft’s ill-timed and unfortunate entrance.  It didn’t matter what Mycroft thought of his sentiment anymore.  John had entirely confessed his feelings for Sherlock to Mycroft more than once by this time, so what Mycroft had just seen could not have been much of a shock.  But he was tremendously disappointed that Mycroft’s appearance put an end to all the lovely kissing, and he was more concerned about Sherlock’s reaction than anything else.  Sherlock had backed up and turned away from John with a brutal suddenness that startled John much more than Mycroft had. 

It was the expression on Sherlock’s face that caused the bloom of anger that grew in John, sudden heat rising in his neck and face as he felt his blood pressure spiking.  Just a moment before, Sherlock had been open, sweet and vulnerable, and owning to such feelings that he may have never acknowledged before in his life.  And now, Sherlock stood like stone, his rigid back to Mycroft, and from the side of his face that John could still see, he may likely have been contemplating murder.  Or perhaps he was just mortified beyond his endurance.  His eyes were narrowed, flashing dangerously, his brow deeply furrowed, his kiss-damp lips downturned in a vicious sneer, and it seemed as if his whole body vibrated with the effort to contain himself.

Just as Sherlock took a breath to speak, John cut him off with a hand to his shoulder.  As much delight as Sherlock’s inevitably clever verbal dagger would bring, John thought perhaps Mycroft had grown too accustomed—too immune—to the constant fraternal sparring.  Mycroft needed to realize that what John and Sherlock had been sharing was not to be trifled with in such a cavalier fashion.  He simply could not have Sherlock regret any part of it.  John gently squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and met his eyes, trying to impart what little comfort and patience he could, and whispered, “Let me.” 

As Mycroft walked unruffled toward his desk and Sherlock began an agitated pacing around the room behind him, John pulled out his wallet and dug out a tattered business card.  He slapped it onto the desk in front of Mycroft, the fierceness of his movement causing Mycroft a bit of a start.  “Here, you cold, arrogant arse,” he muttered angrily as he tucked his wallet away.  “That’s the number for my therapist.  Use it.  I think _you_ need her more than I do.”

Sherlock gave an amused snort while pacing behind John, causing a warm surge of pleasure to wash through John’s belly.

Unmoved, Mycroft raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the card, but didn’t touch it.  Instead he calmly sat down at his desk, carefully setting aside the basin, towel, and remaining first aid supplies, and then steepled his fingers in front of his face.  He thought for a moment, and then inhaled a long breath. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he responded with a sigh.  “John, Sherlock, I apologize.  As you are likely already aware, I am uncomfortable with emotional displays, and under the circumstances, I was making an attempt at humor.  I am sorry if my awkwardness caused me to joke too soon about certain matters.”

“Too _soon_?!” John sputtered disbelievingly.  A snort of laughter welled up inside him at the very idea that Mycroft thought his pathetic attempt at humor—which must have been foreign to him to begin with—was _too soon_.  It was all so ridiculous, so _Mycroft_ , that it just struck John as hilarious, and he began laughing, not with quite so much the edge of hysteria as when he’d first seen Sherlock earlier, but a good, cleansing belly-laugh.  He turned to find Sherlock, to see if he also saw the incongruity in _Mycroft trying to make a joke_. 

Sherlock had circled around to stand close beside John, and met his eye with a gleam of mirth and a badly suppressed grin.  John didn’t know whether Sherlock actually found this funny too, or if he was just enjoying John’s laughing jag.  Sherlock soon allowed his grin to grow into a smile, and then into full-fledged laughter.  Whether it was all really amusing, or just a release of stress, John didn’t care—Sherlock was laughing with that deep, warm, velvet voice, tucking his chin the way he always did, and looking shyly adorable in a way that John had almost forgotten.  John hadn’t laughed like this with Sherlock since BuckinghamPalace, and it felt a bit foreign to him, but very, very welcome.

Before the laughter could fade away, John turned to Sherlock and momentarily embraced him again out of sheer happiness.  “Oh, God, I missed you.”

Sherlock was still chuckling as he returned the hug and answered.  “Obviously.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat noisily, regaining their attention.  He gestured with a mild wave of his hand for John to sit.  John glanced at Sherlock before doing so, noting that there was only one chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, but Sherlock had already returned to pacing the room, so John settled himself in the chair.

“Seriously, though,” Mycroft started, and John choked back another laugh, thinking that Mycroft still sounded like a bad stand-up comedian.  “Really.  Where has all this sentiment led you?  You’ve had to give up your life, Sherlock, for all intents and purposes; and for months you left your poor Doctor here a mere shell of a man.”

Sherlock retorted from the opposite side of the room, “It was necessary.  And yet despite the yoke of his obvious sentiment, he still was able to deduce the truth,” John could hear the pride in Sherlock’s voice, and suppressed a smile.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.  “You, little brother, were naughty to give him clues to work with.  You should have told me you had done that.”

Sherlock’s only response was a dismissive “Oh, don’t be so dull, Mycroft,” and he was off pacing the room again.

Mycroft’s thin lips quirked in annoyance, but he turned a placid face to John and continued.  “Your feelings of sentiment toward each other put you in this danger.  As soon as Moriarty saw what you were to my brother, all was lost, you know.”  Mycroft raised his eyes to follow Sherlock’s pacing.  “You gave Moriarty the tools he needed to win.”

Sherlock snorted from somewhere behind John.  “He’s _dead_.  I’m _not_ , and neither are my friends.  He’s hardly won.”

“But at what cost?” Mycroft sighed.  “Look what you did to John.  And to your other friends too.  Furthermore, John and all your friends are _still_ in danger, and _will be_ in danger, as long as his network still exists.”

Abruptly, Sherlock stopped his pacing; John heard the moment his footsteps pulled up short.  Then he was suddenly standing at John’s elbow, and directing a sharp, troubled gaze at him.

“He actually is right, you know,” Sherlock spoke quietly, the admission causing a touch of resentment to color his tone.  His brow furrowed.  “ _This_ is why love is a dangerous disadvantage.  This is why you should never let your heart rule your head.  And this is why ‘alone protects me’.  You were there when Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of me.  I erred when I let myself feel affection for you.  It can be used against me.  This could all have been avoided if I’d only kept you more at arm’s length.”

“Sherlock-,” John choked, aghast.  _No.  Don’t._  

“But it’s too late for alone, and has been for some time,” Sherlock continued, his tone and his expression softening.  He brushed his index finger gently down John’s cheek.  “And yet in spite of everything that has happened because of my _sentiment_ , I find I cannot regret it.”

John swallowed down a lump and gazed up at Sherlock, not caring the least bit how sappy he must look.  “Neither can I.” 

Sherlock blinked at him languidly for a few moments, John basking in it contentedly, but he saw it in those sharp eyes the moment Sherlock’s brilliant mind raced on to the next idea.  He took a quick breath as his face lit up and he grinned at John.  “Do you want me to tell you how I did it?” he asked gleefully.

“Did what?” John asked, confused, unable to keep up with the quick change of subject.

“How I faked my death, obviously.”

John looked up into Sherlock’s proud and boyishly excited expression.  He knew Sherlock’s natural tendency to boast of his own brilliance, and he truly wanted to give him that opportunity to show off how he’d outsmarted them all… but John still felt pain lance through his heart when he remembered seeing Sherlock flail through the air that day, and wasn’t sure if he could handle all of it just yet.

John swallowed guiltily and slowly shook his head, not wanting to disappoint, but taking his coward’s way out.  “I do, Sherlock, I do.  I want you to tell me all about it with every excruciating detail…  But not today, okay?  It just really hurts me even to think of it, even though now I know that it was all faked.  Maybe when we get home, yeah?  When it doesn’t seem so real anymore?” 

He saw disappointment flash across Sherlock’s features, followed by a slight frown as he puzzled through his thoughts.  Finally, Sherlock nodded, apparently coming to an understanding of John’s fears.  “Of course, John.”

“I’m sorry, really, but I just can’t—“

“It’s all right.  I will dazzle you with my brilliance when you’re ready.” 

John smiled as Sherlock restarted his pacing.  From anyone else that would have been a brazen boast, or perhaps a bit of humorous sarcasm, but John knew that Sherlock was simply being factual.  The man really was brilliant, and when the time came, John definitely would be dazzled.

Mycroft started to say something then, but before John could fully turn his attention to him, Sherlock stepped back over, his face alight with some new excitement.  His hands gave a single sharp clap of exhilaration. 

“I know!  Want to see what I’ve been doing the last six months?” he asked.  Then he deferred to Mycroft with “I can show John, can’t I?” but it seemed more a formality, since by the time he’d finished speaking, Sherlock had already grabbed John’s hand and was hauling him towards the door. 

John glanced back at Mycroft, who merely issued a long suffering sigh and waived them on.  “But Doctor, please remember, top secret, pain of death and the like, yes?”

John could only call out a sharp “Oi!”as Sherlock already was pulling him forcefully through the outer office, guilelessly leading him by the hand.  John had to suppress a giggle as Anthea looked up from her Blackberry in wide-eyed surprise as they passed her, John’s short legs stumbling after Sherlock’s long strides, like two schoolboys playing crack-the-whip.  John suddenly had a vivid memory of running through darkened alleys holding hands the night they were handcuffed together.  John merely had been annoyed then, and a bit worried, but had had no idea of the horror of what was to come the next morning.  This was better.  This was happiness and relief.  This was silly in the most wonderful way.  John just laughed as he willingly let Sherlock swing him through another door, down a staircase, through a long hallway, and then he paused at a door at the end that had a lock on it not unlike the ones at Baskerville.  

Sherlock put his thumb on a pad and keyed in a code, and then opened the door as it buzzed in welcome. 

The room was cold.  Sherlock stopped inside the door and lifted a white lab coat off a hook and put it on.  He offered another to John, but John waived him off, content in his jumper, but glad he’d worn it. 

John couldn’t help but look around, gawking in amazement.  It looked a lot like the spy movies in this room—there were at least a dozen people in lab coats attending to various work stations, and there were computers and monitors everywhere.  The floor beneath John’s feet hummed, and he could tell it was a false floor to accommodate all the technology hidden beneath.  Sherlock was explaining that it was kept cool because of all the equipment running, and was pointing out what each particular cluster of workstations did. 

He couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s excitement, his words spilling out so fast that John was able to only capture the basics of what he said.  Then Sherlock leaned over a panel of controls, and John gasped to see that what he had assumed was just a glass partition in the room turned into a smartboard or some other kind of touch-screen surface. 

“I didn’t think these were actually real—just some telly invention!” he said in amazement as Sherlock began manipulating the graphics shown with his fingertips.

Sherlock only frowned and sighed.  “Do keep up, John.  As I was telling you…” Sherlock continued with what sounded like a history of the gadget, speaking at a pace that made him sound a bit like an auctioneer, and John just smiled and shook his head, letting the words simply wash over him, their welcome familiarity cleansing him of all the guilt, stress, and sadness of the last six months.  Then Sherlock moved on and showed him the CCTV feeds, Interpol feeds, and some other complicated technology at which John could only gape. 

Sherlock soon steered them to a central workstation that John instantly knew was Sherlock’s—aside from the tell-tale heaps of seemingly unsorted papers, notebooks, and a box of nicotine patches, there were small pictures taped to the bottom of the main monitor screen.  There was Mrs. Hudson, sweeping the doorstep of 221B.  Then there was Lestrade standing near a police vehicle, and it looked like he was speaking to someone, but whoever it was (most likely Anderson or Donovan) was carefully torn out of the picture.  But most striking were the pictures of John.  There were half a dozen of them at least.  John walking down Baker Street with a bag from the shop in his hand.  John sitting on a park bench looking sad.  John having lonely coffee in the window at a café.  An exhausted John coming out of the door at the surgery.  John looking warily at a chip-and-pin machine.  John standing in the front window of the flat, staring out at the street while sipping tea.

John was able to understand from Sherlock’s animated chatter that he’d spent the better part of his six-month absence here in this room helping Mycroft’s people tear down Moriarty’s network.  He gleaned that the graphics and maps on the glass smartboard indicated various divisions and branches of the network, and marveled at how all the information seemed integrated there on the glass, so easily accessible.

“You must love this, all this technology, all this data instantly, literally right at your fingertips,” John offered, remembering how impatient Sherlock used to be trying to access information on his smartphone or laptop.

Sherlock broke off in mid-sentence and whirled on him, pale eyes suddenly blazing.  “Don’t be so _stupid_ , John!” he spat angrily, his rich, thunderous baritone jarring John out of his sense of wonderment.  “How can you even _think_ I love this?  I want to go _home_!” 

John felt so stunned that he flinched back a step under Sherlock’s fierce gaze, trying to understand what had prompted Sherlock’s sharp retort.  Sherlock then spun around dramatically, the open lab coat whirling, plopped himself down on a stool at his workstation with an exasperated sigh, and buried his attention in the data on his monitor. 

It was then the realization came to John, and he nearly groaned aloud at his own foolishness.  Of course Sherlock was homesick, which made sense, but not until that very moment did John come to recognize that just because he now knew that Sherlock was alive, it didn’t mean that Sherlock was free to go home with him.  Moriarty’s network still had to be dismantled.  The Work was still there, the danger was still real.  Nothing had changed today except John’s awareness of the operation.  Glancing at the smartboard again, with its massive tangles of lines, maps, operative locations, color coding, and question marks, John felt his chest tighten in anguish as he realized how much more work was left.

He felt stupid and ashamed, deploring his own lack of sensitivity.  He took a deep breath and approached Sherlock, whose back was still stiff with anger, and eventually settled his hand cautiously on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry, love,” he said softly, his fingers burying themselves under the long mass of curls at Sherlock’s neck and rubbing at the tension he found there.  “I-I didn’t realize…  I was just so chuffed to find you alive that I wasn’t thinking beyond that yet.”

Thirty seconds or more passed without any acknowledgment from Sherlock, and John was just beginning to despair when finally Sherlock cut him a dark glance before turning back to his screen and typing something rapidly on his keyboard.

“You have been very free with the endearments today, John.”

He had to stop and rewind his own words in his head before he realized what he’d said.  “Oh God.  Sorry.  It just kind of slipped out.  Not good?”

Sherlock was still looking at his monitor, but John could see the little line at the side of Sherlock’s mouth that belied half of a grin as he answered softly.  “No.  No, it’s fine.”

John smiled tenderly as affection welled up inside him, and it felt like he might burst as he suppressed himself from kissing the top of Sherlock’s curly head as he sat at his station.  It was one thing to be seen by Mycroft, and another thing entirely to be seen by Sherlock’s ‘co-workers’.

“So they’ve been keeping you here this whole time?” he ventured, letting his fingers lightly knead the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Mostly,” Sherlock shrugged, typing rapidly again.  “They let me out now and then if they need me to help them with a particularly difficult facet of the network.  Though not here, not London anymore, just abroad.”

Before John could ask anything more, a light began to flash on the part of the big glass smartboard that held a world map, blinking somewhere near Tokyo.  Then Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. 

“Yes.  Yes, I see it.  Do you have eyes on the suspect right now?”  Sherlock frowned in concentration as he quickly opened files and maps on his own monitor, scanning them so quickly that John’s eyes hurt trying to follow what he was seeing.

“All right.  Let me get back to you before you make a move,” Sherlock put the phone down and steepled his fingers in front of his lips.  His eyes darted swiftly across all the information on the monitors, and then with a slow blink, John could see he had gone to his MindPalace.

John was familiar with this, and the familiarity was comforting.  He just smiled and stepped back, hands in his pockets, looking around the room a bit, knowing it might be a while before Sherlock was back with him.  He hadn’t noticed Mycroft come in, but now found he was standing to one side in front of Sherlock’s workstation, apparently careful not to block Sherlock’s view of the central monitor. 

Now that John didn’t have to at least appear to be listening to Sherlock’s animated explanations, he took in the room’s environment more carefully.  Regardless of the room’s temperature, all the nameless lab-coated technicians (Sherlock hadn’t introduced a single one of them.  Was that due to security reasons, or had Sherlock simply not cared enough about any of them to learn names?), the sanitized, cookie-cutter workstations, the windowless room, and the humming computers made it seem like a cold and lonely place.  At least John had the cluttered, homey surroundings of the Baker Street flat, and had familiar faces to keep him company when he needed it.  All Sherlock had here was The Work, which, almost surprisingly, was not enough for him.  He wanted to go _home_.  The thought of it made John swallow down a dry lump in his throat.

He was standing behind Sherlock, absently jingling the change in his pocket, feeling out of place and sad for Sherlock, when Mycroft approached the station and made a noise of disgust, his lip curling in distaste. 

“Sherlock.”

When there was no response, Mycroft sighed impatiently.  “Sherlock,” he called again, raising his voice slightly.

John frowned, confused.  “He’s thinking, Mycroft.  He’s not hearing you.”  Surely Mycroft knew this, had seen Sherlock do this countless times before, just as John had. 

Mycroft made no acknowledgement of John’s statement.  “Sherlock, please.  Wipe your nose!”

John stepped around and found that, yes, Sherlock’s nose was running.  Between the cool room, the nosebleed, and the tears he’d shed earlier, it was bound to result in this.  There was a blood-tinged drip of snot curling from Sherlock’s right nostril to his upper lip, apparently disturbing Mycroft’s ideal of public demeanor so much that he wanted Sherlock to interrupt his thoughts to attend to it.

“Oh, bloody hell,” John groused under his breath as he drew his own handkerchief from his pocket.  “It’s not a big deal, Mycroft.”  He cupped his hand over the back of Sherlock’s head and then gently wiped his nose and lip clean.  “There you go, love,” John crooned softly as he repocketed his handkerchief, stroking Sherlock’s long curls.  “All better.”

John didn’t miss Mycroft’s Sherlockian eye-roll.  While they didn’t much look alike physically, at times there certainly were some things that easily pegged them as brothers. 

He carded his fingers through the long, wild curls again, but stopped short when they caught on a tangle.  Knowing that Sherlock might be lost in thought for some time, John found the short comb he carried in his back pocket and gently began easing it through Sherlock’s hair, careful not to pull too hard when he came upon a snarl.

“When was the last time you actually combed your hair?” John chided gently, knowing there would be no answer.  Slowly, one tangle at a time, John combed out the curls, tenderly unknotting the strands and letting them wind around his fingers until they hung in little ringlets.  He was almost half-finished when he discovered that a section of Sherlock’s hair at the top of his head was about four inches shorter than the rest.  Where most of his hair was more than six inches long, there was a small, localized area where it was only about two inches. 

“What happened here, Sherlock?  Somebody start to give you a haircut and gave up after a minute?”

But before he even finished asking the question, John realized what had really happened.  This was where Sherlock must have carelessly hacked off some hair to provide the curls necessary to fake the autopsy photo.  If that was six months ago, then he must have practically cut down to bare scalp in his haste.  John threaded his fingers through the short strands and couldn’t hold back a little anguished sound.  “Oh Sherlock…”

Mycroft was suddenly there, holding out a pair of scissors toward John.  “He hasn’t cut his hair since he’s been here.  He won’t let me bring in my barber, but perhaps you might be so kind as to even things out a bit for him?”

John took the scissors with a nod and did what he could.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been called upon to help Sherlock’s hair recover from a mishap.  In the past, singed ends, curls splattered with corrosives, and once even a hungry goat had pressed John’s amateur home barbering skills into use when Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to see a professional.

As he finished and Mycroft’s people were sweeping away the clippings, John handed the scissors back to Mycroft while surreptitiously sneaking a small lock of hair into his pocket with the comb.  If he wasn’t going to be able to bring Sherlock home today, at least he’d have something to prove to himself later, when the doubts began and the nightmares returned, that this was all real and not a dream.

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, “John, may I have a word with you while Sherlock is otherwise...engaged”? 

John nodded cautiously and Mycroft walked smoothly to the door, and gestured for John to accompany him, his face placid and unreadable.  John started to follow, but then hesitated, and he looked back to Sherlock, suddenly worried that Mycroft might intend to separate them and send John home already.

“I--I don’t want to leave him.”

“It’s all right, Doctor.  I only mean to talk to you in my office where it is a bit more comfortable.  Sherlock can join us when he’s…ready.”  When John still hesitated, Mycroft spoke to a woman seated two stations away from Sherlock.  “Please ask Sherlock when he…returns…to join us in my office.”

“Yes sir”

**

Once back in Mycroft’s office, with John again seated at the spindly little chair in front of his desk, Mycroft played host and poured tea in silence, as if it took all his concentration just to pour.  John had a suspicion that he was in for a lecture, and didn’t much feel like just sitting there and letting Mycroft dish it out, because, John realized, he had a few things to say to Mycroft first.

When Mycroft held out the dainty little china cup on its precious little saucer, John didn’t take it, merely staring at Mycroft with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh and set the cup and saucer down on the desk in front of John.  “All right, Doctor.  Have at it.  You obviously have something you want to say to me.”

John rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, gathering his thoughts, not sure where to begin.

“When I came to see you four months ago, you told me that Sherlock was incapable of empathy, incapable of understanding love.  How can you-?” John cut himself off as he heard his own voice rising in anger.  He took a breath and started again.  “His own brother, how can you not see it?  I know you saw him in here before, what he said, what he was going through.  Did that look like a man who couldn’t empathize, or who is incapable of loving?”

“Of course not, Doctor.  As much as I’ve always tried to teach him the value of detachment and reserve, and as much as he’s always verbally espoused those ideals, Sherlock has never been completely capable of controlling his emotions-”

“Not like you,” John interrupted, sarcasm dripping.

Mycroft sighed.  “No.  Regretfully, not like me.”

“Thank God.”

Mycroft sipped at his tea, perfectly composed, as if John’s insult had merely escaped his notice.  “My point is, dear Doctor, that what I said at the time was merely strategy, to protect the operation.  It was necessary.”

“Necessary,” John repeated, trying to understand why those particular lies were necessary.

“Yes.  It was important that you were seen mourning.  We have proof that you were being watched.  And are _still_ being watched.  We did not wish to jeopardize anyone’s safety.  I do apologize for having to keep you in the dark.  You do appreciate the need for that, don’t you?” 

“For safety reasons,” John nodded, and finally relented and sipped his tea.  “I understand, but I’m just not sure my safety was worth what it cost me all this time.”

Mycroft nodded.  “Point taken, Doctor, but do recall—It wasn’t just your safety that needed to be considered.  The threats were also for Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and perhaps even Miss Hooper.  And of course, my primary concern was always Sherlock.”

John pressed his lips together as he swallowed another sip of tea.  _Sherlock_.   No matter how horrific this experience had been for John, it would always be worth any degree of discomfort to ensure Sherlock’s safety.  “On this,” John replied, “if only for Sherlock’s sake, I have to agree with you.”

Mycroft gave a small nod, and then they drank their tea in silence for a few moments.  Finally, Mycroft replaced his cup on its saucer and sighed.  “Well, perhaps it’s just as well that you now know.  You were a huge distraction for his work.”

John lifted his eyebrows.  “How’s that?”

Mycroft gestured with the pot, but John shook his head.  As Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea, he explained.  “I know you have deduced the basics of what occurred, but Sherlock hasn’t told you the whole story.”  Mycroft paused to take a sip.  “You see, when Sherlock finally came to me for help, a few weeks after the… _incident_ , he was inconsolable.”

With a frown, John set his empty cup back in the saucer with a loud clink.  “What do you mean, _inconsolable_?” 

“He was distraught.  Grief-stricken.  Heartbroken.  Devastated.”

“I know what it _means_ , Mycroft,” John broke in impatiently, his jaw clenching as he tried to picture an inconsolable Sherlock in his mind.  “I just don’t understand why…”

“Oh, come, Doctor.  You _know_ why—because he had to cause you so much pain in order to save your life.  But he had never suspected how severely you would suffer his ‘death’.  His plan had been that it would only have been for a short while—a few weeks, a month maybe—before he apprehended Moriarty’s associates and was able to come back and set things to right.  Sherlock hadn’t realized just how vast and complex Moriarty’s network would be—rogue governments, terrorist cells, intelligence communities...  When he came to me— _inconsolable—_ it was because he was just realizing that you would have to experience that feeling of loss for a very long time before he could complete his work to make you and the others safe again.”

John folded his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking as he thought about the quiet tears Sherlock had shed for him just that afternoon, the tears Sherlock had shed up on the roof…  What had _inconsolable_ been like?  What had it cost Sherlock to be feeling such pain all this time?  John swallowed drily.  “So…that’s why you said I was a huge distraction to his work?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft nodded as he sipped tea.  “More than just that, Doctor.  You see, when Sherlock asked me for help, we quickly made available to him all these tools to take down the remainder of Moriarty’s network of criminals.  For once, I did not have to convince him to work with me.  It seems that, with the global and political implications of the network, the government and Sherlock had similar interests in dismantling it.”

“However,” Mycroft continued, not looking at John but gazing unseeing into his teacup.  “In spite of our technological assistance and increased manpower, Sherlock remained in a dark place.  He was horribly depressed by what he’d done to you, and it was difficult for him to concentrate.  You know how he gets when these black moods come over him.  Several times, when he insisted an impending arrest needed his personal attention, we’d find that he didn’t actually go to attend the operation, but rather was tracking you down and stalking you from afar.  This put you both in too much danger, since we knew you were under surveillance by Moriarty’s people.  Therefore, I began to curtail his outside activity, and did not allow him outside access without an escort, which did not help his depression.”  Mycroft set his cup and saucer down and made an odd grimace.  “Well.  As you might expect of my dear brother, he escaped his escort, and when he saw how much pain you continued to be in, it sent him reeling.  I’m afraid at this point there may have been a short backslide into drug abuse.”

John couldn’t hold back the strangled noise that escaped from his throat.  “Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered to himself, blinking away moisture from his eyes.

“I never had proof of it, and of course he denied it.  But all the same, I was quite worried.  That’s why I can’t allow him to travel anywhere in London anymore.  Traveling abroad has not been an issue, I believe, because the temptation to shadow you is removed from the equation.”

John was just trying to wrap his brain around everything that Mycroft had said when the door behind him burst open, almost as violently as it had earlier, and Sherlock swooped through the doorway, his lab coat billowing in his wake.  He stopped short, looked at John, gave a little sigh, and then turned and left, leaving John blinking in confusion.

A moment later he was back, another small chair in his grasp, and he set it down next to John’s and plopped himself into it.  He glanced at John with wide eyes, then drew his legs up and hugged his knees, gazing now at the floor.

“Glad you were able to join us, brother dear,” Mycroft crooned politely, but John could hear the drip of sarcasm in his words.  He lifted the teapot toward a third cup in askance.  “I trust your endeavor with the operation in Tokyo was successful?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock remarked with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if brushing away the question like an insect.

John noticed a slight tremor in Sherlock’s fingers before clasped them back safely around his legs.  He frowned as he tried not to stare at Sherlock directly and just tried to check on him out of the corner of his eye.  Mycroft was talking something about their operations in various countries, but John was only half-listening, worried about what was going on with Sherlock.  He wanted to ask him what happened, or what was wrong, but John knew that Sherlock would never admit to any weakness in front of Mycroft, so he tried to deduce the issue himself.

Bursting in the door, finding John, wide eyes, defensive posture, shaking hands…

Of course.  It was _obvious_.

John reached out to pat Sherlock’s knee.  “I never would have left here without saying goodbye to you, you know.”  He slid his fingers down Sherlock’s shin and then covered his clasped hands gently.  “Didn’t they tell you I was in here?”

Sherlock’s head tilted toward John, but he didn’t quite look at him.  Even so, John could see when Sherlock blinked away moisture.  “She did.  But I wasn’t sure I could believe her.”

John wanted to lean over and wrap his arms around Sherlock, kiss his curls, and comfort him _(how hard is this on Sherlock that he can’t even trust the people who work side-by-side with him?)_ , but Mycroft had stopped speaking and was just staring at them.  Despite what Mycroft already had seen earlier, John didn’t know if Sherlock would appreciate that kind of thing in front of Mycroft again, so he just patted Sherlock’s hand and whispered “I’m still here.”

Sherlock bent his head, took a deep breath, and when he breathed out in a big sigh, he leaned over and rested his head against John’s shoulder for a brief moment.  “Thank you,” he whispered in return before straightening back up.

Mycroft sat there across the desk, looking distinctly uncomfortable again, but at least this time he refrained from trying to crack a joke or poking Sherlock with an insult.  He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, produced a key, and unlocked a drawer on his desk, pulling out a manila file folder and setting it out.

“Now that we’re all together,” he began, “we have to talk about where we go from here.  John, I know you’re relieved and happy that Sherlock is alive and well, but we simply can’t let you leave here and go skipping gleefully down the street now, can we?”

Sherlock gave an amused snort and John grinned, knowing that he was picturing Mycroft’s ridiculous description in his head.  However accurately it described the way John was feeling at finding Sherlock alive, he highly doubted he would have _actually_ skipped.  Even so, he understood Mycroft’s point that it would be too suspicious, too dangerous, if he was seen suddenly sporting smiles and a change of mood.

Mycroft continued in a serious tone, eyebrows raised with authority.  “This is what you’re going to have to do.  Sherlock arguably may be the smarter brother-“

“Not arguably.  I _am_.”

“-but I am the more powerful one,” Mycroft continued without missing a beat.  “So you _both_ are going to have to do this my way if you want my protection.  Need I remind you, Sherlock, that you have already agreed to this plan of action?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and uncurled his long legs, lounging in the little chair that looked too small to balance all his arms and legs, and pressed his palms together in front of his lips.  Mycroft opened the file folder and handed John a large picture of a pretty blonde in her mid-to-late thirties. 

John frowned as he carefully studied the glossy photo.  “She looks familiar, but I can’t place exactly where I might have seen her.  Maybe at Speedy’s, I think.”  Then John remembered the last time Mycroft showed him pictures of people from his neighborhood.  “Wait.  Is this another assassin who’s moved in near me?”

Mycroft apparently recalled the same as John, and with a brief smile, he tilted his head in approval.  “Very logical deduction, Doctor, but no.  No, she’s one of _mine_.  Her name is Mary Morstan.  Her sole assignment is to protect you.  Not Mrs. Hudson, not DI Lestrade, not the insipid Molly Hooper.  They each have their own protective service plans.  This one is for you.”

John nodded and blinked at the picture once more, committing it to memory, and then passed it back to Mycroft. 

Mycroft tucked the picture back in the file.  “Now this is important, John.  You need to follow these instructions _exactly_.”  Mycroft stopped and waited for acknowledgement. 

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded seriously at him, so John shrugged his shoulders and said “All right.”

“You will meet her soon.  To anyone who may be watching, you will appear attracted to her.  You will ask her for a date.  She’s a very personable, capable, and intelligent woman, so you may find this quite easy and natural.  Your ‘relationship’ will progress quickly, and shortly she will move in with you.”

John looked askance to Sherlock again, but saw no disapproval there.  He supposed it made sense.  If this Mary was supposed to be his bodyguard, it made sense for her to have a reason to be always there with him.  “I understand.”

But Mycroft wasn’t finished yet, much to John’s dismay.  “If enough time passes without Sherlock dismantling the entirety of Moriarty’s network, you will marry her.”

“ _Marry_ her!?” John sputtered disbelievingly.  “I get the fake relationship business, but… Married?  You’ve got me marrying some security guard?  How am I supposed to explain this to my mum?  To Harry?  To Lestrade, and Mike and –?”

“You cannot tell _any_ of them the truth—not about Sherlock, or Mary—none of it, for the protection of all involved,” Mycroft insisted.  “Marriage will minimize any suspicion your observers might have of the relationship.”

Taking a deep breath to try to calm himself wasn’t really helping.  John rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to comprehend this plan of Mycroft’s.  He noticed his fingers were trembling and balled his hands into fists on his lap to hide the fact.

“So you’re telling me you have an agent willing to prostitute herself for her job?”  John knew it wasn’t a good argument, but he couldn’t come up with anything better at the moment.

Mycroft’s forefinger traced the delicate handle of his china teacup.  “Whether your relationship is consummated or not is entirely up to the two of you.  She has no orders in that regard.”

Slightly mollified, John blinked and shrugged.  “So the wedding will be a fake wedding then?”

“Noooo,” Mycroft admonished, the word long and drawn out, as if he were speaking to a five-year-old.  “No, it will be real enough, because they _will_ check.”

Horrified, John shook his head, as if that would knock this silly idea clear out of his brain.  His stomach was tied in knots, and he could barely breathe.  “This is crazy!  This plan of yours is completely bonkers!  I don’t want to marry some strange woman just so I don’t get shot at!”  He lifted his hands, palm up, in a helpless gesture and turned to Sherlock beside him.  “Sherlock!  Tell him!  I’m a soldier; I’ve been shot at before!  I’ve been _shot_ before!  I don’t need a sham marriage to some female bodyguard!”

John hated to have to beg, but even if Mycroft thought this was a good idea, how could _Sherlock_ have agreed to it?  After all that they’d admitted to each other today, how could _this_ be the answer?

“There must be another way,” John pleaded to Sherlock.  “Let me stay here, let me help you.  Remember when I said ‘Friends protect people’?  Well, you protected me, now let’s protect each other.  There must be something I can do.  Send me on assignments for you.  I can observe, report back?  Or when you go abroad, take me with you!  No one knows me there…”

John held his breath as Sherlock gazed at him a moment.  Then he shook his head sadly and looked pointedly at him, his expression dead serious.  “You can’t stay here, John.  And you can’t go with me.  _Everyone_ knows you.  The pictures you saw at my workstation?  They were recovered from the possessions of some of those we’ve already arrested.   They’ve been watching.  Remember, you’re not the only one in danger.  If you’re seen coming here today and you never leave, or if your behavior changes in any way, then you’re endangering all of you.  The more you give Moriarty’s people the impression you’ve moved on, that you’re going on with the business of living your life, the safer everyone will be.

“Including Sherlock,” Mycroft added pointedly.  “I know you wouldn’t want to put him at risk, would you?”

Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, and spoke quietly toward the floor.  “You have to do this, John.  I need to know that you are protected or I won’t be able to fully concentrate on The Work.”

Mycroft nodded, “He’ll _never_ finish if he’s torn between keeping an eye on you and doing his job.  He’s been distracted by his worry for you; but if you do this for him, you will give him the freedom to concentrate the whole of his mind on the one task and he can work unimpeded.”

“But I don’t want to marry someone I don’t love just to play a role in this game of yours!”

“Then love her,” Sherlock whispered. 

“What?!” John sputtered in disbelief.  How could Sherlock sit there so calmly and say that after everything they’d said and done today?

Sighing before he continued, Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s gaze.  “Love her.   Make the relationship real.  I know you, John.  You’re kind, so when you meet her, you will try to get to know her, and you will develop empathy, and you’ll get used to her and come to enjoy her company, and being that she’s a girl, you will be attracted to her physically.  I helped Mycroft pick her for you, and tried to remember the traits that appeal to you in women.”

John would have followed his first instinct—which was to be furious with Sherlock—if he hadn’t seen the poorly disguised pain in his eyes.  He sat for a moment, and then took Sherlock’s hand in his.  “I just got you back,” he whispered, and Sherlock moved closer to hear him, allowing John to speak into his ear and offer a little privacy in front of Mycroft.  “I just got you back.  And I was sort of thinking that maybe now I wouldn’t object when people made assumptions that I was your boyfriend.  I don’t want a guard, I don’t want a wife.  I just want to be with you.”

“I know,” Sherlock patted their joined hands as he answered softly.  “I want that too.” 

John swallowed, doubting that Sherlock could really mean it.  “You do?” 

“Of course I do.  Really, John.  Haven’t you been paying attention?” Sherlock’s lips curved in a sad smirk.  “But for now, it’s not about what I want, or what you want.  I have Work to do.”

Defeated, he withdrew his hands and fisted them in his lap.  Without Sherlock on his side, John sighed, barely able to speak above a whisper.  “You really want this?”

Sherlock looked back at him sharply.  “No!  Of course I don’t _want_ this!” he spat the words hatefully, as if they tasted foul on his tongue.  Then he took a breath and added more gently, “But I do need you safe.”

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again, not sure if he was touched by their concern for his safety or devastated by their callous plan.  “I just wish there was another way.”  He looked down at his feet.

Sherlock’s warm hand suddenly covered his fist in his lap and squeezed.  “Do you think that I would ask you to do this if I could come up with another way?”

He recognized that Sherlock was feeding him back his own words that he’d spoken earlier.  _If Sherlock bloody Holmes couldn’t think of any other way, then I trust him that there really was no other way._   He looked into Sherlock’s pale eyes and saw that Sherlock hated the idea as much as he did.  John just hung his head and nodded.  He felt a tremor in his gut, a sour distaste for the words that sealed his acquiescence.  “I hate this, but I do see the logic in it. Okay, you win.  I’ll do it.”

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft soothed in that calm, annoying voice of his.  “I can easily get the marriage annulled if you want that later on, and when it seems safe to do so.”

“Well, of _course_ I’ll want that!” John grumbled angrily.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mycroft didn’t look so damn smug just then.  He gave one of his colorless smiles and continued outlining the plan.

“After enough time has passed, even if the network is still not completely taken down, then Sherlock eventually will have to come out of hiding.  However, we need to be sure that it appears that you’ve ‘moved on’, so that anyone still watching will think that you and Sherlock are no longer close, and that you are no longer a weakness for Sherlock and cannot be used against him.  Toward this end, if the time comes and Sherlock makes himself known to you, you must react negatively.  Publicly scold him, punch him-”

“ _Punch_ him?!  Why would I have to do that? What makes either of you think that’s the way I would react?”  John was aghast at the thought.

Sherlock only grimaced and inclined his head toward his brother. 

“Because, my dear doctor, that’s what I did,” Mycroft admitted, his lip curled sourly. 

“If he didn’t punch like a princess, he might have actually done some damage,” Sherlock smirked and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I punched you because you should have come to me at the very beginning!  For two weeks I thought my only brother was dead!”

Two weeks? _Only_ two weeks?!  John pressed his lips together tightly to stop a retort that wouldn’t help things at all, and only spoke once he could control that thing inside that made him want to shout at Mycroft.  How could Mycroft had hit his own brother, especially when, by Mycroft’s account, Sherlock had been inconsolable at the time?

“Well, I’m not you, Mycroft.  I don’t want to punch him.”  He couldn’t imagine hitting Sherlock for doing what he’d had to do, especially knowing what it had cost him.  But if he told the truth at that moment, John felt a little bit like punching both the Holmes brothers, for thinking they could pick out a woman for him.

“No.  You _will_.  You’ll do whatever it takes to convince any possible network observer that you are no longer a valid pawn in this chess game.”

John just sighed and held up his hands in surrender.  Bloody hell, if he could agree to a sham marriage, then a pulled punch shouldn’t be an issue.  Sherlock at least would know the truth behind it.

He listened, feeling more than a bit numb, to the rest of Mycroft’s instructions.  He and Sherlock were to have absolutely no contact—no visits, no phone calls, no texts, no e-mail, no letters, no using Mycroft as a go-between.  It was further explained that this was necessary since there were any number of bugs (cameras and/or listening devices) hidden in and around 221B, at the surgery, even at the pub where John had spent a few evenings with Lestrade.  The bugs couldn’t be removed without creating suspicion, so they’d have to stay put for now.  John understood, but it still chafed to have to follow orders from Mycroft. 

“Good thing you wrote your notes on your arm and not anywhere else,” Sherlock said, touching the cuff of John’s right sleeve. 

John snorted, having forgotten all about his coded notes.  He gave Sherlock a grin.  “I guess you really _have_ been keeping an eye on me.”

Sherlock took John’s arm and undid the button, rolling up the shirtsleeve and pushing back the sleeve of his jumper to examine the marks.  “Good, very good, John.  The code is personal and wouldn’t have been easily deciphered.”

He pulled close the water basin that Anthea had brought earlier, and with a dampened corner of the towel, began to gently wash John’s arm.  John bent toward him, watching Sherlock take such tender care as he worked, and quietly rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, allowing himself to simply enjoy the moment.  Then Sherlock’s cheek pressed against the top of his head, and when it was done, after re-buttoning the cuff, John felt a small, tentative kiss on his forehead. 

Mycroft sighed, but said nothing.

They sat together that way, John not wanting to move away, and hoping—no, _knowing_ —that Sherlock felt the same.  He breathed in his scent, wallowed in his warmth, and wished he could just stay here, like this, forever.

But after a few moments of peaceful interlude, Mycroft was standing up, and with an air of finality, reminded them that the outer door was always being monitored by Moriarty’s people.  “You’ve been here long enough, Doctor.  We really shouldn’t risk raising their suspicions.  They really ought to see you leave before long.”

John raised his gaze to lock with Sherlock’s.  He saw pain and regret and even fear.  He knew Sherlock hated the idea of his leaving as much as John did.   For that reason alone, John did his best to put on a brave front.  He looked away, clearing his throat, and stood, taking a step back.  Sherlock rose too, but caught John’s hand and intertwined their fingers as he slowly walked him back towards the door to the outer office.

At the doorway, Sherlock stopped and faced John.  “This is as far as I can go,” he whispered.  “I can’t risk being seen from the street when the outer door opens.”

John nodded, trying to speak around the lump in his throat.  He lifted their joined hands and clasped Sherlock’s hand in both of his and held it to his heart.  He took a shaky breath, swallowed drily.  “I can’t believe I found you only to lose you again.”  His next words caught in his throat and he could barely force them out.  “How am I supposed to do this?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened to speak, but he had no answer.  Instead he merely shrugged and rested his forehead against John’s.  “I’ll work as fast as I can.”

John nodded, hearing what Sherlock didn’t say in words.  _The faster I finish this, the faster we can be together._  That was good, but he felt the need to remind Sherlock, “Fast is good, but _careful_ is better.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, sighing and taking a step back.  “Obviously.”

John released Sherlock’s hand and took a deep breath, steeling his resolve to leave without making a fool of himself.  “All right, then…”

But Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, looking away and blinking, suddenly breathing hard.  His hands reached out and grasped John’s forearms tightly, his pale eyes now intently boring into John’s.  “Live your life, John.  Go out with friends, go on dates, go to work.  Take a look at the website; you might like to try a case or two.”  Sherlock’s grip softened along with his expression.  “I just want you to be happy, John, and if you fall for Mary, and you’re happy, then … then that’s good.  But…please don’t hate me for doing this to you.”

“Hey,” John whispered, cupping a hand to Sherlock’s cheek.  He wasn’t sure, but it looked like Sherlock might be on the verge of tears again, and if that happened, then John would be lost.  He’d never be able to leave him like that.  “How can I be happy unless I know that you’re happy too?  You need to finish this, so you can come home and we can both be happy, yeah? 

For a moment, his only answer was a blink and a slight tilt of Sherlock’s head.  But then, Sherlock’s hands slid up John’s arms and wound around his shoulders, and suddenly they were wrapped in each other’s arms one last time.  Their lips met, and it was sweet and sad, hopeful and broken, all at the same time.  John held it, relishing every moment, trying to commit every aspect of it to memory— _warmth, soft lips, strong arms, shaky breath, sweet musk, desperate strength—_ until, finally, it ended by silent mutual agreement.

With a sigh, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s neck and murmured, “I was thinking that maybe… after this is all over… maybe I could be your boyfriend?  For real?”

“Yes.”

It was just a one-word answer, but John could hear everything in it.  Sherlock was happy, relieved, and scared at once.  John knew Sherlock didn’t have much—if any—experience with relationships, but John didn’t have any experience either when it came to boyfriends.  They could learn together.  He gave Sherlock another squeeze and then backed away again.  He met his hopeful, wounded eyes and tried a stoic smile as he reached to turn the collar on the lab coat up so that it stood high against Sherlock’s neck.  “There, that looks more familiar,” he stated as he forced a grin.  “If you need me, you know how to find me, yes?”

Sherlock blinked at him, puzzled only for a moment before he caught on.  They had to leave each other this way, with warmth and humor.  It would be impossible to do it otherwise.  “Need you?  Why would I need you?”

“No reason, no reason at all.”

They both cast wan smiles at each other as they each took a step back.

Suddenly John added, “Love you.”

Sherlock smiled in spite of his sadness at their impending separation, looking a bit like a timid spring sun peeking through stubborn gray winter clouds. “You, too.”

Mycroft gave a weary sigh in the doorway.

John straightened himself up, squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and nodded to Sherlock, who nodded back with a trembling chin, and turned away.  John saw the door to Mycroft’s office close, Sherlock disappearing behind it.  With a painful lump in his throat, John turned to leave.

Waiting for him by the outer door, Mycroft raised his eyebrow and held his hand out.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“Surely you understand that we cannot take any chances that after your visit your possessions may be tested for Sherlock’s DNA.”

“What?” John repeated, still not comprehending.  “What DNA?”

Mycroft gestured with his hand again.  “Your handkerchief, Doctor.”

“Oh!”  John fished in his pocket for the crumpled cotton, and almost giggled when he passed it to Mycroft.  It felt a little like being caught in school with chewing gum.  “Really, Mycroft?  You seriously think somebody’s going to steal my handkerchief so they can test it for Sherlock’s booger DNA?”

“I would prefer to err on the side of caution.”

John shrugged and took a step toward the door again, but Mycroft held his hand out once more.

“What now?” John asked, a bit annoyed.

“You know what, Doctor.  Your back pocket.”

 _No!_   John had all but forgotten it was there.  He had assumed earlier that he’d gotten away with his secret stash of that one sweet curl.  He should have known that he couldn’t put anything past either Holmes.  John thought for a moment about just pushing past Mycroft and making a run for it.

“They could DNA test it, fine,” he argued.  “But it wouldn’t tell them if it was from now or six months ago.”

“Do you want to take that chance, Doctor?”

In the end, it was a risk John wasn’t willing to take.  He gave it up, settling the lone little ringlet in Mycroft’s palm while a vice squeezed something under his ribs.  Then he turned and walked out, letting his anger propel him through the door so that he wouldn’t be so painfully aware of everything he was leaving behind.

As soon as he heard the door close behind him, the anger vanished.  All the air rushed out of his lungs and he lost all strength in his legs.  His vision blurred.  He reached automatically for the cane he hadn’t used in years, and instead found the wrought iron rail next to the steps that led up to the door.  He sat down hard on the third step and bent his head down, hid his face on his forearms, and wept, unashamed. 

What just happened?  Sherlock was alive, he was there, but their time together had gone by so dizzyingly fast.  And now it was over, Sherlock taken from him again for God knew how long.  And in spite of John’s touches, in spite of his attempts to memorize everything about him, the vividness of his memories would fade.  He’d forget something Sherlock said, he’d forget the exact color of his eyes in certain lights, he’d forget the feel of his curls, or the scent, warmth, and softness of his skin.  He’d forget the precise timbre of his rich voice when he told John he loved him.  In a day or so, this would just seem like a dream, and he’d wonder if it really happened. 

The door opened behind him and Mycroft silently stepped down to sit beside John, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together loosely.  He spoke quietly, “Very good, Doctor, at least you didn’t go skipping down the street.”

John snorted at the humor attempt and tried to dry his face in the heels of his hands, not wanting to think about how many times he’d lost it in front of Mycroft lately.  He was mindful they were probably being watched, maybe even heard, so he didn’t say anything, since without Sherlock, he had nothing left he needed to say.

Mycroft added, keeping his voice low, “If it helps, you’re not the only one feeling like this, John.”

John turned to look at Mycroft, suddenly forgetting his own pain as his concern for Sherlock grew.

“Inconsolable?” he whispered.

“No.  Not inconsolable,” Mycroft reassured him.  “Sad, but with a certain closure now, and renewed determination.”

“Yeah.  Me too, I guess,” John nodded, realizing it was a pretty accurate summary of how he was feeling also. 

John took a deep breath and stood.  “Take care of him.  Make sure he eats and sleeps now and then.  And a hug might help if he gets lonely.”

Mycroft gave him a droll look, but stood and offered a handshake to John. 

 _Well, this is new_ , John thought.  He couldn’t recall Mycroft ever offering him a handshake before. 

When John took his hand, he knew why.  Mycroft had relented.  When he took his hand back, there was a small ringlet of Sherlock’s hair in his palm

Mycroft winked, not unlike the way Sherlock had the first time they’d met, and went back inside.  John stifled a grin, snuck his hand into his jacket pocket to hide his souvenir, and walked away with his chin up, trying not to skip down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the holiday this week, it may be a bit before the next chapter (the epilogue) is posted, but I will make every attempt to get it up before long! Thank you!


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to follow Mycroft's rules. Most of the time they are successful. Sometimes they are not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Resolution #1-Don't get spoiled with S3 info until the US air date on Jan. 19th. Resolution #2-Finish what you started. So here it is--It's finished! Now I just have to wait until Jan 19th to see how far off track I am with this story!

For the most part, both John and Sherlock stuck to Mycroft’s orders.  As much as following Mycroft’s game plan annoyed John on principle alone, he had to admit that it seemed the best way to keep both himself and Sherlock safe, and to allow Sherlock to work more or less “worry free”.

John met Mary two days later.  He literally bumped into her in a coffee shop and she splashed her hot coffee all down the front of his jumper.  He was so preoccupied with grabbing napkins and dabbing at the stains that he didn’t even look at her clearly enough to realize that she was the woman from the picture he’d seen in Mycroft’s office.  Once the excitement of the spill was over, however, and she introduced herself, John knew he had to play his role in this part of the game, so he offered to buy her a replacement coffee, which she accepted with a friendly smile.  They sat together at a small round table by the window, and as he made the usual small talk with her, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he realized that they most likely were being observed, most likely by multiple parties.

Despite his initial annoyance at the faked clumsiness that probably ruined one of the few jumpers of his that Sherlock actually never insulted, John ended up pleasantly surprised that he liked Mary.  They went through all the usual motions, giving all appearances of starting a new relationship.  Their conversations were even typical of those John would have whenever he’d tried to chat up a girl in the past.  He found, much to his chagrin, that Mycroft was right—Mary was a very intelligent and attractive woman, and it wasn’t difficult to pretend they were dating, even though at night, when John stared at the ceiling before falling asleep, the only one he cared to dream about was his brilliant flatmate, and not the woman who’d been at his side for dinner that evening. 

It was surprising how easy it was to build a faux relationship with her.  After some thought on the matter, John decided that it was probably because he was able to talk about Sherlock to her, and as the empathetic girlfriend she was supposed to be, she had no other choice but to pretend to be interested.  She occasionally had to correct him subtly when he spoke of Sherlock in the present tense (“Sherlock always is able to hail the first cab he sees” would get a gentle “Did he really used to be that lucky?”), but most of the time, John just liked that she would listen and let him talk.  It was better than with Greg or Mike, who always wore uncomfortable expressions and hinted he should be moving on with his life whenever John spoke about Sherlock at any length.  And John missed talking to Sherlock, missed Sherlock acutely, so pretty much everything reminded him of Sherlock and he’d be saying so before he could stop himself.

Between his dates with Mary—dates always spent in publicly observable places—John began to feel a bit at loose ends.  He’d spent six weeks mourning, and then four and a half months investigating, and now that the ‘case’ was solved, and John no longer felt a need to mourn, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself to fill the gaps between work and his dates with Mary. 

Remembering Sherlock’s advice, John tentatively returned to his blog.  He hadn’t touched it in over six months since Sherlock’s fall.  He deleted every comment that self-righteously proclaimed Sherlock a fake, or worse.  There was a long thread of condolences that he ignored entirely—even though he knew Sherlock wasn’t really dead, the pain of that time when John had believed it was still too raw.  He also ignored the thread of followers who’d posted supportive messages as to Sherlock’s innocence.  It was all moot now.

Finally, John found a follower who had posted a recent comment:

_I think I saw you on the street the other day with a pretty blonde woman.  You were both smiling.  It was nice to see that maybe you have begun to move on.  Be happy!_

He was fairly sure that this comment was from someone from Moriarty’s network or from Mycroft’s, so he was very careful when he posted his response.

_Yes, thank you.  I think it’s time I did move on.  He was my best friend and he was infuriating and brilliant and I loved him.  I will mourn him always, but I cannot live the rest of my life as a hermit.  He would not have wanted my life to come to an end just because his did.  I have started to make my own way now, without him.  But it is difficult, so I hope my readers will understand.  I am not Sherlock, I can’t solve cases in a day, an hour, or minutes the way he did.  I don’t even know if I can solve anything at all without his help.  But I’m willing to give it a try and see if I can make a go of it.  Anyone have anything for me?_

Within days, John was busy working on simple cases—everything from cheating spouses to identity theft and stalking exes.  He felt bumbling and slow-witted as he worked, and he missed Sherlock keenly, but Mary was with him always (of course), and John found it helped to bounce his thoughts off her.  She wasn’t Sherlock, but she was better than the skull at any rate.  And much to his own surprise, John was solving cases.  It felt good to blog again about something worthwhile, and doubly good knowing that Sherlock was likely reading everything he wrote.  Sometimes, when editing his own writing before clicking on the post button, John could hear Sherlock’s voice in his mind, berating him for something he’d written or omitted, and he’d smile to himself. 

***

Sherlock was the first to break Mycroft’s rules.

Almost a year after finding Sherlock alive, there appeared one day a comment on the blog that was written entirely in Hangzhu symbols.  It was posted as if John had originated the message from his own computer, and yet John had done no such thing.  And as soon as John saw it, he instantly suspected _,_ somewhere in his gut, that this was not a troll from Moriarty’s syndicate, nor a zealous fan, and definitely not a test from Mycroft.  It was Sherlock.

Some of his readers saw the message with the symbols first, and a few of them had even tried to translate the message using the London A-Z, but they quickly posted frustrated comments announcing that this book was not the key to the book code.

John got a little thrill from seeing the symbols again, remembering one of his early cases with Sherlock.  And when he saw that London A-Z was no longer the correct key to the code, he simply smiled and walked over to the bookshelf next to the fireplace, and pulled out his copy of The Hobbit.  He’d long suspected that there had been another reason why Sherlock had hung onto that book that day.  After a couple of minutes to translate the symbols to numbers and then find the correct pages and words, John was able to read the short message.

_Weary of this adventure brother is witless lonely without my hobbit_

John smiled at the message, amused and touched, even as he felt his eyes heat with unshed tears.  He then set to work to make a reply in kind, quickly realizing that it was much harder to find appropriate words within the book, determine the correct numbers, and then translate the numbers to Hangzhu symbols.  He then had to find a way to download the correct font.  It took him two whole days, but he was eventually able to respond.

_Unexpected note precious never you mind the stone-giant take great care on your journey love you my clever wizard_

He then laughed and ignored the next message that arrived shortly after he made his response.  It was obviously from Mycroft.

_Stop at once silly Tooks_

_***_

 

The next time Mycroft’s rules were broken, it was by John, nearly two years after Sherlock had thrown himself off the roof of St Bart’s.

He was out shopping with Mary, picking up various things they’d need for their “small but tasteful” wedding.  In one hand, John carried a bag full of craft items to make table centerpieces, and another small bag with their ludicrously expensive rings (thank you, Mycroft, for the help on this.  John wasn’t about to spend a year’s salary on rings for a sham wedding.)

The street was bustling with shoppers and tourists, so much so that it was difficult for John to walk side-by-side with Mary without constantly bumping into people walking in the other direction.  He knew crowds like this tended to set Mary on edge, her eyes constantly scanning the people around them for hidden dangers, so John slowed down a bit to accommodate her, and made sure she was always within an arm’s length of him.

After a particularly boisterous group of teens pushed past, jostling both John and Mary, John turned to give them a glare and patted his pocket to ensure he hadn’t been pick-pocketed.  Finding his pocket empty, he swore loudly and pushed his bags at Mary, ready to take off after the young hoodlums.

“Sir, I believe you may have dropped your wallet,” a low voice said behind him, a voice that John would know anywhere, even after all this time.

John whirled around and froze when he saw that the owner of that voice was indeed his sorely missed friend.  Sherlock held the wallet out towards him, his expression tentative, his long, graceful fingers steady, but John could not manage to even make the simple move to take it.  He found he could only stand there staring, his heart thundering, his knees quaking, his breath gasping.

Sherlock had aged since John had seen him last.  The lines across his forehead were a bit more pronounced, as were the lines on his neck, behind his ear.  His eyes were still that uncanny blue-gray, but tiny little lines crisscrossed underneath them, and at their outer corners.  There were a handful of gray hairs glinting in his dark curls.  John ached for all the time that was lost to them, that Sherlock had been allowed to age without John being there to share it.  He could only imagine what he himself must look like to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed, still holding John’s wallet out for him to take, and John thought he looked a bit apprehensive as they stood there gazing at each other, the river of shoppers parting to pass by them, casting them angry looks for blocking the path. 

Why would Sherlock be apprehensive?  John thought he almost looked as if he thought John would hit—

_Oh!  Right!_

John suddenly remembered Mycroft’s instructions.  He was supposed to hit Sherlock, publicly, to try to signal to Sherlock’s enemies that using John as a pawn to get at Sherlock may not get them what they want anymore.  He didn’t want to do it, but he understood the logic behind it, and he knew he could pull his punch so that he wouldn’t really hurt Sherlock physically.  _I’d_ a _void the nose and teeth too…_

But he stood there open-mouthed, staring up at his friend, flexing the fingers of his left hand into a fist over and over again, but could not actually take a swing at him.  He pressed his lips together and let out a little aggravated snort, but still could not bring himself to do it.

By now, they’d attracted a small crowd, and John could hear a soft susurrus of “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sher-” floating about him as the onlookers recognized them and began to whisper among themselves.

John shifted his feet and tried hard again.  He gritted his teeth and told himself to _just do it_ , but still stood like stone, his body mutinous.

Then Mary was there by his side.

“You!” she exclaimed, glaring at Sherlock, and snatched the wallet from him, ducking it into the larger shopping bag.  Then she stepped in front of John and raised her chin as she stared Sherlock down defiantly.

“ _You broke his heart_!” she shouted fiercely, and suddenly she slammed her right fist into Sherlock’s jaw. 

John saw Sherlock stagger backward a step and then land unceremoniously on his backside, blood dripping from his lower lip.  He felt Mary pulling on his arm, trying to hustle him away, but John resisted.  “He’s bleeding, let me—“

“Squib,” Mary whispered in his ear, and then gave his arm a strong yank.  “Come on!  You’ll see him tonight.”

Realizing that it wasn’t really Sherlock’s blood enabled John to let Mary move him along, but as he lurched forward to walk with her, he couldn’t help but look back at Sherlock, now rising to stand and spitting fake blood onto the sidewalk, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. 

Their eyes met for a split second, and when they did, Sherlock winked.  John stifled his smile and hurried home with Mary as fast as he could, as if that would make the evening arrive sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who commented and sent Kudos! I appreciate every one!


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